


The Light Is Coming

by MotherOfCups



Series: The Iris Oracle [1]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: AMAB Asra, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Healing, Like it starts out real canon then takes a SHARP right, M/M, Magic, Multi, Novelization, OT3, Polyamory, Smut, Tags may be added, Tarot, Trauma, Witchcraft, but like spiritually canon?, canon-divergent, content warnings, feedback WELCOMED, mental health, part 1 of 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-10-24 21:38:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherOfCups/pseuds/MotherOfCups
Summary: Iris Keshet, the young and feisty proprietor of the Indigo Child, is known for three things: her skill with the arcane, her frightening clairvoyance, and her fiery temper. A chance encounter with a familiar stranger; the cryptic departure of her mentor and lover; a visit in the night from a lonely noble. These are the events that set in motion something much larger than Iris, than everyone in her magnetic orbit: a reckoning the Universe has been weaving together for millennia.





	1. The Fool: Pump Your Veins With Gushing Gold

**Author's Note:**

> We needed another novelization of the Arcana, right? 
> 
> I can't write without music. Listen along [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/11blweUtQklVHHtxeAP11U). 
> 
> Content warnings will be added at the beginning of each chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glass Animals – Black Mambo**
> 
> _CW: Sexual harassment/sexual assault _

The mist that covered Vesuvia that night was cold, bordering on icy, like a gasp in the night. The cold months were here, though in this balmy seaside realm, that meant sheets upon sheets of rain, which was good for the healing herbs that Iris and Asra would harvest from the forest in the spring. When Iris’s breath whispered out in front of her as she wrenched open the Indigo Child’s door, she thought of that harvest and of the potions and spells of the coming year. 

With a heavy shawl wrapped around her close-cropped ice-blonde hair, Iris stepped out into the night, wiping the little tears away from her deep indigo eyes. She thought maybe, this time, he would come after her, but of course he would not. It was not in Asra’s nature to wear his emotions on his sleeve like her, to meet her in her anger. He would let her rage, shout, pout, and sulk without budging, his face stony, dispassionate, until she wore herself out. Tonight was no different; as she left, she knew he was sitting at the table with his lapsang suchong, his eyes downcast, patient, infuriating. 

She had a right to be angry. He was leaving without her, again – for how long, he wouldn’t say. “Take me with you,” she’d pleaded him. She had been apprenticed with Asra for three years, and been his lover for nearly as long. But for as long as she had known him, he would disappear for days, sometimes weeks on end, and would not tell her where he was going, leaving her instead to maintain the Indigo Child on her own, the shop they ran together in the Market district. At first, she accepted the answer that her magic was not yet powerful enough to accompany him, but now her magic was a strong as his – he had told her himself. Yet he wouldn’t let her come with him. 

“Where I’m going, you can’t follow.” He told her, firmly, his normally playful violet eyes swirling and dark, his brows set.

“Then tell me where you’re going.” She admonished him. She could already feel the tears springing up in the corners of her eyes.

Asra looked away from her. “You know I can’t do that, Iris.” 

“Then when? When will I be ready? When can I come with you?”

He cast his eyes down to his gently steaming teacup; he started idly shuffling his Tarot deck, the gold edges catching in the low flickering candlelight, glinting like the mismatched rings Asra always wore, silver and adventurine, gold and amber, carnelian, peridot, filigreed gold and silver and copper bands. His only bare finger was the sister finger of his left hand. 

She sighed, grabbing her shawl, an icy spiral of anger gripping her throat, her ribs. “When do you plan to leave?”

“Tomorrow.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” She replied, and stepped into the night. She was not going to waste this precious night energy (nearly a new moon, too) fighting with him, again. 

Her bare feet smarted against the chilly cobblestones, but she preferred the cold to the dulling of her senses with shoes. Her feet guided her exactly where she needed to go that night, across the canals, past the abandoned Coliseum, through the tidy little neighborhoods of Goldgrave. Despite her shawl, her hair and eyelashes were dewy with mist when she arrived at the Rowdy Raven. 

She wound her way up the creaky wooden stairs and through the crowded and noisy tavern up to the barkeep, her friend Aster, who was tending the drafts that night, the bartender Barth at her side, shaking up round after round of Salty Bitters, the Raven’s unusual but popular house cocktail. “Can we do our deal again tonight?” Iris asked, sliding seamlessly into one of the rickety wooden stools. Aster owned the Rowdy Raven with her husband Dara, and on nights when she and Asra fought like this, Iris read the cards for the patrons for a room and dinner. 

Aster raised a plucked, arched brow and poured off a goblet of barberry mead. “What’s Asra done dis time?” Iris reached for her coin purse, but Aster held up her hand in protest. “Girl, you bring in way more fortune-telling for us than what te room and drinks are wort’. Please keep half of your earnins tonigh’.” 

Iris smirked. “You spoil me.” 

Aster laughed, showing the gap in her front teeth which she was famous for. “It’s just good business, girl. We’re not street urchins anymore. You sh’ know what you’re wort’.” Aster paused, then frowned. “But you’re avoiding te question.” 

Iris sighed. “It’s the same shit. He’s leaving again, and he won’t take me. Won’t tell me where he’s going. Who knows when he’ll be back?” 

Aster pinched her lips in disapproval, leaning forward on the bar on her bony elbows. “He’s a mysterious one, dat Asra. What does he expect you t’ do while he’s gone?”

“Keep the shop, like a sweet little housewife, I suppose. But he won’t even ask that of me directly.” Iris and Asra were not a traditional couple, despite sharing a bed and the shop together. Asra was never much for labels, and encouraged Iris to take other lovers, which she did. Still, Asra held a special place in her heart, one that she could barely explain. She ached when he was away, and it pained her to feel as if he were hiding anything from her. Deep down, she knew that Asra cared for her, too, even if he never said so plainly, even if he left her alone for long stretches of time, even if he kept her at arm’s length, always, always... 

Aster clucked sympathetically, and poured each of them a shot of firewater. Iris smirked; this is what she loved about Aster – she knew how to address a problem. Aster held out her shotglass and said, “To our lovers – may dey figure it out, eventually.” 

“Hear, hear.” They clinked glasses and poured the burning liquid down their throats, the heat surging like amber light through their veins. 

Iris grabbed her goblet of mead and made her way to the back booth, casting a quick alteration spell. An embroidered indigo canopy, dotted with gold, silver, and copper constellations, unfolded from the ether and swung its lush fabric out over the booth. Candles and rich incense of sage and juniper appeared with a pop, their wicks flickering – crystals of amethyst, quartz, and amazonite materialized beside them. 

Iris pulled out her cards, the Tarot deck Asra had gifted her, designing each card just for her, and felt a quick surge of his energy – his care for her, tinged with a simmering pain. Iris winced; she could clearly see him, still at the back table of their shop, the cast-iron pot of tea long grown cold, his own cards fanned out in front of him: the** Magician, reversed,** the **ten of wands,** the **Hermit, reversed,** the **queen of cups, reversed,** the **two of swords, reversed,** the **ten of cups, reversed** …Iris felt a sharp pain, a wringing of her heart, as Asra threaded honey-colored fingers through his shock-white curls, head bowing low on slumped shoulders. With a gentle, deep breath, Iris let the image dissolve, storing her feelings away to unpack later; her first customer was already approaching her makeshift fortune-telling tent, smile wide, smelling of wine. 

Even though Iris was technically still Asra’s apprentice, her reputation as a powerful magician had spread throughout Vesuvia. She was well known for her potent beauty, love, and fertility potions, for her acute clairvoyance, and her adept fire and alteration spells, but by far what she was best known for was her skill with the Tarot. Add this with the Rowdy Raven crowd’s willingness to part with their pentacles, and Iris had a steady stream of business any night she set up her miniature shop in the tavern. 

This night was no different. Within hours, Iris had read for over 20 customers. She enjoyed reading for the Rowdy crowd. Many of her patrons were other regulars of the Raven, ones who knew her by name and patronized the Indigo Child; she dipped out of her tent several times to have a drink or do a shot with a familiar, friendly face, though she was ever careful to not approach her limit, her edge – she had played with that fire before. Yet, as midnight approached and Iris’s coin purse grew fatter and fatter, she sensed something was coming – the shorn hairs on the back of her neck began to stand on end, the skin on her arms raised as if chilled, though sweat beaded on the back of her neck in her warm tent. 

Her answer came just as the clock finished its chimes and a stranger raised the flap of her tent. He was stocky, ruddy-faced, and stank of fish, and of ale; a dockworker, and from the scar that sliced across the center of his lips, a dockworker with a questionable past. He sat heavily on the wooden bench on the other side of the booth, his breath fetid as he leaned across the table, his beady gaze rolling over Iris. 

“You’re quite the pretty little thing, aren’t you?” He slurred, his gaze slowly boiling up to a leer. 

Iris couldn’t help the color from rising in her cheeks; she knew she was considered beautiful – smooth skin, soft hair, deep eyes, a shapely mouth and a woman’s body – but whenever a man told her so, it made her wary, suspicious. Her womanhood, her beauty, made her vulnerable, she knew. She’d spent too much time fending for herself not to. 

She narrowed her eyes, holding her hand out to him expectantly. “The fee first, if you’d be so kind.” 

The man chuckled darkly, and lurched forward, grasping her slender wrist in his wide, meaty palm. “What say we skip the fee and I show you a good time, pretty thing?” 

Iris scowled, lowering her voice to a growl. “Let go of me.” 

He snorted, his wicked grin souring. “Don’t be like that. I’ll treat you good.” 

“I’m warning you.” Iris hissed, now trying to wrench her hand out of his grip. 

“Come on now, be a good girl...” 

“I said LET GO!” She shouted, slamming her unfettered fist into the rickety table, white and blue and pink and orange sparks sputtering. The flames on the candles flared to the size of hands, illuminating her fierce expression in terrifying bright light, shocking the man into letting go of her. With a swift, practiced movement, Iris hiked up her skirt and drew the athame strapped to the inside of her thigh, pressing the tip of it into the man’s neck. 

“I’m not a good girl. Now get out of my _fucking_ tent.” She spat, bearing her teeth. The man, eyes wide, scrambled away from her, stumbling backwards onto his ass and out of her booth. 

“You bitch!” He slurred, struggling to stand; Iris’s athame was still pointed at him, her full lips twisted into an animal snarl.

A leather-gloved hand slipped under the man’s bare bicep, hauling him up easily. “Is this man bothering you, little witch?” The owner of the gloved hand asked in a husky tenor, half-playful, half-disgusted. Iris chanced a glance at the man, and couldn’t help but gasp.

Vesuvia got its fair share of pirates as a seaside realm, but Iris had never seen a pirate who looked quite like this. He was impossibly long-limbed and tall, nearly a foot taller than Iris, and his head was a mess of overgrown auburn waves that fell raffishly over his heavy-lidded gray eyes. Even under an imperious black cloak, red satin lining shimmering like cooled blood, Iris could see his shoulders and arms were shapely from use. Most striking was the eyepatch over his right eye – no, most striking were his soft lips, tinged slightly gray from the cold, sculpted into a smirk. 

Iris swallowed heavily, lowering her knife a hair’s breadth. “He grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.” 

The little crowd of patrons by them was watching the scene warily, their eyes narrowed, whispering, glowering, tutting as the stranger hauled the drunkard up roughly. “Is that so?” He said evenly, his smirk dropping as he turned him, the drunkard’s features twisted into a pained grimace. “You seem to be the type who’s familiar with pirate code. Do you know what my captain would do to her men who didn’t listen when women said no?” 

The red-faced man shook his head pathetically, and the stranger laughed, once, loudly, a bark that echoed through the tavern. “Captain Chingshi made eunuchs out of them.” He snarled, dropping the man to his knees, making him wince and hiss with pain. It was now that Dara and Barth pushed through the gathering crowd, Aster leaning over the bar, her brows furrowed with worry. Iris sheathed her athame as the two men, their brows set, hauled the drunkard out of the bar. 

The stranger watched them, his shapely lips set as his one-eyed gaze traced their broad backs to the front staircase. Once they disappeared over the threshold, he turned to Iris. “Are you all right, little witch? Did he hurt you?” 

Iris shook her hand at him, even as her other hand wound its way over her heart; it was pounding under her palm. “I’ll be fine. It happens more often than you’d think.” 

He hummed thoughtfully, then lifted the curtain to her little fortune-telling booth. “I’d feel better if you sat for a moment.” Iris saw the little crinkle of worry on his brow, under his raffish curls, and felt an indignant bristle under her sternum.

“I said I’ll be fine. I didn’t need your help, anyway. I had it under control.” 

He leveled his gaze down at her – he was so _tall_, she thought, a familiar warmth radiating through her, warmth she normally only felt for Asra, warmth that made her knees wobble under her skirt. His expression softened, even if just a little. “That may be true, but I won’t stand aside while a brute manhandles a woman. Especially...” He trailed off; Iris was surprised when he blushed a little, looking pointedly away from her. 

“Especially?” She felt the corners of her lips turning, teasing, her anger dissipating as quickly as it flared. 

He huffed, but said nothing, his flush reddening.

Iris snorted, smiled; she slipped under his outstretched arm and into the booth. To her surprise, he slid in across from her, sitting on exact same bench the drunkard had sat on just moments ago. She must have worn her shock on her face; he let out a little breath of laughter, not unkind. 

“I was waiting my turn, after all.” He explained, voice lilting with amusement. His voice, now lowered to this intimate murmur, stirred some deep knowing inside Iris, and the warmth in her belly spread down, down. “To… patronize your services.” He smirked at this, a brow cocked teasingly.

“You sailed on the _Hóngsè Biāozhì_ under Captain Chingshi?” Iris asked casually, willing her heartbeat to steady, but it refused. The stranger grinned at her, widely, crookedly. 

“For nearly two years, back when I was still a whelp, fresh off the battlefield.” He replied. “I was on a spice ship bound for Milova when the _Hóngsè Biāozhì_ overtook us. They marooned the rest of the crew, but I somehow managed to smooth-talk my way onto their crew as a doctor.” He chuckled – this close, Iris could smell Salty Bitters on his breath, but he clearly wasn’t wasted, hardly acting drunk at all. His visible eye was sharp and clear, even as he softened his gaze and rested his chin in his hand. 

“A doctor.” Iris said softly, thoughtfully. A wave of knowing passed over her, and she realized who this man was. “You’re Doctor Devorak.” She exclaimed with a quiet gasp. She had heard plenty of him, tales of his adventures sailing with the Red Fleet, the Dominatrix of the South Seas; of the clinic he ran in the Southside, not far from the Raven; of his time at the palace, a rumored favorite of the capricious Count. He was something of a legend in the seedier parts of town. 

She grinned as she saw the doctor’s eye widen in surprise, dropping his roguish act for a split second before he smirked again, raising his thick eyebrows. “You’re quite good, little witch. Ah.” He reached into his waistcoat and placed a small bag of coins in her hand – Iris could tell by the weight they were at least four times her average fare. 

“I’d heard you’re quite the fortune-teller. You impressed my drinking buddies. I’m to have my cards read tomorrow, but I thought – what the hell?” He smiled fully now, showing rows of even, white teeth. His eyes flitted downward ever so slightly, resting on the swell under Iris’s shirt. “Especially when the little witch is said to be such a...erm, a beauty.” He flushed ever so softly, averting his gaze from her again, only for his raffish smirk to twist back onto his features, like a shield.

Iris smiled, but didn’t answer, pocketing the gold and shuffling her cards skillfully. “Let’s do a four card reading tonight. What question are you asking the cards? Hold it closely to your heart now.” She deftly drew the first card and laid it face-up. It was the **son of wands**, a snake wrapped languorously around a primitive staff, a powerful energy radiating outward. 

“This card represents who you are. You move instinctually, bordering on impulsiveness; you are known to be rash, with a flair for the dramatic. Your biggest motivators are your passions, and you come off as charismatic, charming, and smooth-talking.” 

“You know flattery won’t get you a better tip, right?” The doctor said with what Iris assumed was a wink, as only his visible eye closed. She smiled coyly. 

“I wasn’t done. This card needs to be careful; passion sears hot as fire, and fire burns. Without something grounding them, without introspection and boundaries, those same passions can consume you alive, or fizzle into nothing, leaving you cold, empty, and spent. The son of wands can become overly impulsive or aimless, lost and unmoored, if one isn’t careful.” Iris looked up at the doctor through her long eyelashes. His eyes glittered with recognition and his mouth narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. 

She flipped over the next card. She bit her lip, and her heart ached for him – it was the **three of swords, **tangled in red threads, dripping with blood. 

“This card represents your past. You haven’t had an easy path, have you, son of wands?” Her eyes flitted up to his. “A life full of pain and heartbreak. You’ve loved and lost, you’ve let others in and been hurt, you’ve wandered, lost and lonely, in the dark. A past so full of loss – even if it isn’t what the cards have in store for your future, without properly bandaging, healing, your wounds, they will bleed into the now.”

The doctor lowered his eyes, and distractedly removed his cloak – the tent was growing quite hot. “I know who I am and what my past is. What can you tell me about my future?”

Iris noted the deflection – not an acknowledgment, but not a denial either. “Don’t be so impatient, son of wands.” She flipped over the next card. She felt another stirring of heat deep in her belly. The **eight of wands,** rainbow lightning striking and casting eight jagged shadows. 

“Your present is full of action, passion, change. The wands are all about energy, and the eight is a channel, so this is an intense change, an irresistible current that threatens to sweep you away. Your life will be consumed with a new and exciting passion very soon. Take care not to let it drown you; not all movement is forward.” 

The doctor raised one thick eyebrow at Iris, his curious gaze boring into her. She felt stripped, nude, under his eye, but she matched his energy, parting her lips slightly and lowering her eyes to the final card. With a rush of clairvoyance, she saw what it was before she flipped it over – the **Lovers,** two geese flying together under a radiant blue sky. 

“The Lovers. This card represents deep and meaningful connections, lasting relationships. You will meet someone soon, or rekindle a previous relationship where there is a deeper connection. This is also a card that can represent the cementing of values, beliefs, and identities. It could be that your connection with this person or persons is so powerful and real that it shifts something soul-deep inside you. This card represents your future.” 

Iris’s hands trembled as she laid down the last card. It had been a long time since the cards had stirred something so dark and hot within her. She could barely meet the gaze of the doctor, who was staring at her intently. He pressed his lips together in thought, then parted them sensuously. 

“What do you make of what the cards tell you, little witch?” He asked slowly, his husky tenor low, syrupy.

She took a deep breath, and felt something inside her unfurling, out of her control. She leaned forward towards the doctor, resting her weight on her elbows. “I don’t normally do this. It’s up to the recipient to make sense of what the Arcana has shown them.”

“Ah, but I want to know what you think.” The doctor leaned in towards her, so their faces were mere centimeters apart over the small table in the booth. Iris bit her lip, gaze tracing his sharp features, the cut of his cheekbones across his sallow cheeks, his soft, sculpted lips, the way his long, long fingers brushed away an unruly wave of auburn hair, the movement so smooth it hurt. The way he was familiar, and unknown, the way his stormy eye searched her, as if he, too, felt what she was feeling, the inescapable pull of the cards between them, the future laid before, veiled and uncertain, but absolutely irresistible.

She took a deep breath, slow and steady, inhale, exhale; then, she made her decision.

Her hands flew to his jaw, pulling him to her, pressing her lips onto his; his skin was cool, but his mouth was hot as his lips parted and Iris’s tongue slipped through them, awash with the taste of Salty Bitters as she explored the jut of his teeth, the velvet of his tongue. Her hands rushed up to his hair, silky and delicious to run her fingers through - she slowly raked her fingers across his scalp, then grabbed a fistful of auburn locks and yanked his head back, exposing his long, lean neck. She could not believe how incredible, how familiar, he smelled – leather, musk, rum, the sea. He let out a soft, shuddering groan and closed his eyes in pleasure as she whispered, “Careful, son of wands. You could drown in this.” She dragged her teeth down the sinew of his neck, inhaling deeply. “Don’t rush in thoughtlessly.”

“I’ve thought about this long enough, sitting across from you.” He crooned, turning his head towards her, his shapely lips parted. It drove Iris absolutely wild. 

She swiftly climbed over the narrow table and into the doctor’s lap. She could feel that he was already hard beneath her, and she bloomed between her legs as she softly ground down against him. He grabbed her shoulders as she fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, pulling her into another rough, wet, passionate kiss; he moved into her mouth, this time, straining to taste her, their tongues tangling. She ripped open the waistcoat roughly, revealing a loose-fitting white shirt with low neckline and a pale but rugged chest covered thickly with dark hair. It took her aback for a moment, the contrast between this man and Asra, his body honey-colored and practically hairless. 

The doctor took her moment’s hesitation to move – he leaned forward and pulled her into his arms, one hand under her ass and another between her shoulderblades. He lifted her easily and swiveled, laying her down along the wooden bench, his body arched like a cat over hers. 

He sat up and ripped off his waistcoat while pulling at the ties of his shirt and her blouse. They gave way easily under his deft hands, and he pushed aside one part of Iris’s shirt to reveal a full breast, her mauve nipple hardened like a rosebud in spring. The doctor slowly traced its outline with his leather glove, and Iris gasped at the coldness, the sudden pleasure. He pulled off his right glove with his teeth while keeping Iris’s starry-eyed gaze; she noticed his hands were huge, the skin was soft, like a pianist’s. 

He lowered himself over her and placed his mouth over her nipple, his tongue circling hotly. Iris moaned and reached up around his waist, one hand grabbing the silky material of his shirt, the other, the cool skin of his neck. She raked her long nails down his back and arched her back slightly, pressing their flesh together, and he moaned softly in response. With his bare hand, he blindly searched for the hem of her long skirt, lifting it up so he could touch the softness of her thighs, pulling her legs apart. As his hands approached her hips, he lifted his head up, and met her gaze. 

“Can I touch you?” He whispered breathily. His thumb traced the fleshy place where her hip met her mons. 

“Touch me.” Iris mewled, both plea and command, pulling his face towards her for a kiss. His hand smoothed up her hip, then down to where her legs met. He groaned deeply, his mouth twisting into another roguish smirk. 

“You’re already so wet. I don’t know if you need it.” He teased, and Iris throbbed under his hand. 

“Do it.” She moaned throatily, running her fingers through his hair, scraping her fingernails against his scalp, a warning. With the softest of whimpers, he dipped his cool fingers into her like a honey pot, pulling the moisture up to her tender clitoris, rubbing against it in small gentle circles. Iris whined quietly and closed her eyes, throwing her head back in ecstasy – how did he know, how could he touch her so perfectly? He kissed her neck, and she marveled at the softness of his lips, his kiss, his breath heavy and leaden. 

Suddenly, the flap of the tent opened, and Aster peeked her head in, her gaze landing on the tangle of limbs in her booth. The doctor blushed deeply, but Aster merely chuckled as Iris fumbled frantically to close her shirt. “Y’know, Iris, I gave you a room for te night. People might be less likely t’hear you dere.” 

Iris tied her shirt back together and extracted herself from the doctor. “Get decent enough.” She whispered in his ear. “We’ll finish this upstairs.” She grabbed the Tarot deck and her coin purse and opened the tent flap to a small crowed of patrons who had gathered, waiting for their fortunes to be read, some chuckling knowingly to themselves. She spoke to them, assuring them they could get a reading at the shop tomorrow. When the doctor emerged, she grabbed his hand and quickly pulled him to the back stairs away from the crowd before anyone could recognize him. 

As she hustled him up the stairs, Iris took a deep breath and took stock of the situation. She wanted to sleep with Dr. Devorak. Dr. Devorak, the man who allegedly killed the Count that night three years ago, who was marked for death and due to be executed, but escaped without a trace. Iris thought of his still-gloved left hand, the hand that was undoubtedly branded, the sword through the heart, like the 3 of swords she drew only minutes before. What would draw him back to a place that wanted him dead? This was so, so foolish, and yet…

Something deep inside her compelled her to this man, and the cards practically told them to leap into each others arms. She knew better than to resist the pull of the Universe – Asra had taught her better than that. 

...Asra. Her heart ached. He was not possessive, and took other lovers besides her, but she had never felt anything like this for another man before. This desire for the doctor was as powerful what compelled her into Asra’s arms every night. She’d never thought that lust could be as powerful as her love for him. 

Iris swiftly opened the door to her room – one of the smallest in the inn, large enough for a double bed and some small accoutrements, but not much else. This was generally the room Aster dumped her drunkest patrons in to sleep it off – it was not meant to be glamorous, but it was good enough for her and the doctor’s purpose. She quickly swept him through the door, closed it behind her with a snap, and locked it with her magic. 

Now, she was face to face with him. He had hastily, crookedly, tied his shirt back up, his cloak and his waistcoat in his hands; he hadn’t even put his other glove on. He was flushed, and for the first time tonight, he looked earnest, shy even, embarrassed. Then, he burst out laughing, throwing his head back in a true, honest smile. Iris found herself laughing too, her mouth wide, her laugh loud and wild, carrying, sonorant.

“I’ve been caught in hairier situations,” he said, throwing his waistcoat and cloak on the bed. He turned back to Iris. “I didn’t even ask you your name, little witch.” 

Iris felt the light grow in her heart. “It’s Iris.” 

“Iris.” He turned her name over on his tongue as if it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. He approached her, planting his gloved palm against the door just above her head, and cupping her chin in his bare hand. “A fitting name for a bewitching woman.” He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her deeply. “Now, where did we leave off?” His hand trailed down her neck, clavicle, breastbone, navel…

“And what should I call you?” Iris asked, leaning her head back, slowly dragging her hands through the fine hair on his chest that peeked out from the deep neckline of his shirt. 

He tugged at her skirt and pulled it down so it fell to the floor with a soft thump. Slowly, slowly, he walked his fingertips down to her wetness, and she shivered as he stroked her. 

“You can call me Julian.” 

Iris wrapped her right leg around Julian’s hips, pulling him closer to her. She fumbled again with his shirt while he touched her, peeling the fabric away from him to reveal his body underneath. He was a stunning man – his shoulders broad and arms strong, his chest chiseled. He threw the shirt and the other glove onto the bed and pressed himself against Iris, his lips on her neck, her hands running up and down his back, feeling the sinuous muscles, the skin roughened from work and sun, but oddly, no scars. 

Iris was putty in Julian’s hands – it was as if he knew her every preference, every pleasure. After only a minute or two of touching, his skilled fingers pulsing against her pleasure, Iris felt bliss jolting through her, like all her nerves were firing at once. She cried out in Julian’s ear as she climaxed; her voice sounded far away to her, and she barely noticed as Julian lowered himself to his knees and threw her leg over his shoulder so he could taste her ecstasy. 

He lapped at her hungrily, reaching up to touch her breast through her shirt while he pleasured her. Iris was so dizzy with delight that she couldn’t stop herself from wailing. She grabbed at his hair while she came again, quicker, harder, moaning loudly, grinding her hips against his tongue as her legs shook, her mind blanked, and black stars blinked and burnt themselves into her vision. When Iris stopped quivering, he finally pulled away, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and looked up roguishly at the gasping half-naked woman above him. 

“What a view.” He whispered, tracing Iris’s slick labia with a long finger. For the first time, Iris saw the brand on his hand, the deadened skin blackened and raised; it sent a chill through her, but she ignored it for now. She pulled him up by his hair until he was towering over her again, and she wrenched apart the buttons of his pants until his hard cock fell out, long and thick, framed in a dense carpet of dark pubic hair. She started to pull him towards her but he whispered softly, “Wait.” 

From his pocket, he pulled out a small wooden case – inside was a sheepskin barrier. He put it on himself deftly, then lifted Iris up against the door so he could grind his hardness against her. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, and he grabbed her ass with both hands for her stability. 

“Can I…?” He whispered throatily, running his whole length against her clit, which still throbbed from her last orgasm. He surprised Iris, the naked need in his voice, stripped completely of his roguish veneer. He was begging her. “Is this…?”

“Please...” Iris whimpered, her head spinning with a potent brew of bliss and need. “I want it. I want you.” 

Iris watched as his visible pupil dilated and his lips fell open around a choked moan. Without hesitation, he reached down and adjusted himself. With one swift movement, he thrust all of himself inside of her. Iris gasped and groaned at her sudden fullness, and Julian sighed with pleasure; for a moment, they didn’t move, the only sound in the little room their ragged, hasty breathing, as they soaked in the reality of what they were doing. Then, unable to contain himself any further, Julian began thrusting quickly and deeply into her, the door rattling in its frame with each hurried movement. 

Iris gyrated her hips with each thrust and covered his mouth with hers. Their kissing was no longer exploratory – it was frantic, animalistic, needy. Iris raked her fingernails down Julian’s back and held on for dear life as he pumped into her; he wrenched his lips away from hers and threw his head back, grunting with exertion, pure lust. After a few minutes in their fervent rhythm, Julian let out a guttural groan from deep inside him and his hips stuttered, even as his thrusts grew harder.

“Iris...Iris, I – I’m –”

“Yes, Ilya,” Iris moaned, throwing her head back. “Come for me.” 

The doctor gave her a puzzled look for just one moment before his lips parted with a long, tremulous moan; his thrusts grew long and languid as he came. He gave Iris several slow, open-mouthed kisses before slumping his head into her neck, panting heavily. Both their bodies were slick with sweat, and Iris could feel Julian’s muscles quivering in her arms. She buried her face in his hair to take in the heady scent of his body after sex and stroked the nape of his neck while his breathing slowed. 

For a moment, both the doctor and the magician were at peace in each others’ arms. But, as the seconds ticked on, both realized that though their lust was slaked, there was something left over – something that confused them both, the tension in the room slowly growing. It was Iris who broke the silence first. 

“Could you let me down?” 

“Ah...of course.” Julian murmured, lifting Iris off of him and upright on the floor. He laughed lightly. “Don’t think that this will give you a better tip, either.” 

Iris chuckled softly, a little awkwardly, and their eyes met. Julian only could meet her gaze for a moment, before breaking away with a soft sigh. He turned his back to her and sat on the bed, staring out the small window above the bed, revealing the night sky, sprinkled with stars. The mist had subsided, if only for the moment. 

Iris picked up her skirt from the floor. She wanted to bolt, to savor this sweet memory without souring it with talk. Still, a powerful surge of intuition kept her rooted in place. “Can I ask you a question, Julian?”

He looked over his shoulder to regard her. “Can I ask you one in return?” 

Iris thought for only a moment, before nodding once. “Why did you come back here? To Vesuvia?”

He shook his head, the smallest hint of a smile playing across his lips. “If I had a reason, I would tell you, but I don’t.” Iris, her brow furrowing, met his gaze, saw into him, and couldn’t tell if he was lying or not – perhaps, she realized, because it was neither a truth nor a lie, but something his heart knew that his head hadn’t quite figured out. 

“What is your question for me?” She asked quietly.

The doctor’s gray eye met hers again, with the most unguarded pain she had seen from him all night. “Why did you call me Ilya just now?” 

Iris bit her lip. It was a question she had for herself. “I don’t know. I have no idea where it came from… it just...slipped out. Does it mean something to you?” 

“I thought our deal was one question for one question.” Julian teased her, though Iris sensed the distance in it, the deflection. “If I answer that, do I get another one?” 

“Are you afraid to answer?” 

Julian paused; his expression darkened. “I should go.” 

“No.” Iris pulled up her skirt, securing the loose waistband across her wide hips. “I have a place I can stay, and you don’t. You’re welcome to use this room tonight. I’ve already paid for it.”

Julian opened his mouth to say something, but closed it quickly, his lips wrapping into a knowing smirk. “This was fun. I hope you’ll read my cards again soon.” 

Iris laughed quietly. “Maybe someday.” She slipped out the door, leaving the doctor to his starlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: It lowkey bothers me they don’t have a Fool chapter. The encounters during the Magician don’t feel like...enough? To push the apprentice off the cliff into his/her/their spiritual adventure, as it were, for me. So I wrote this. Enjoy~ _
> 
> _Also, my interpretation of Julian’s ~sexual preferences!~ is that he’s a switch who is either a bratty sub or a service top. And it kinda sorta depends on who he’s with. So. If that bothers you, um, sorry, I guess? _
> 
> _Stay tuned for the Magician. _


	2. The Magician: All I Ever Want Is Breaking Me Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Glass Animals - Toes **   
  
_ CW: No content warnings _

Iris had the public bathhouse all to herself – it was well after midnight, after all. She let out a sigh as she sank into the warm, fragrant waters, scented with the cinnamon and orange oils Vesuvia’s baths were known far and wide for. The heat sank slowly into her muscles, stretching them, relieving the tension she was carrying in her neck and upper back. And yet, she was distracted, distant. Her eyelids fluttered open; she had much to unpack before she returned home. 

She took a deep breath in, letting the relaxing, refreshing scent of the water flood her nostrils, her nerves, sink deep into her psyche. A chance encounter with a wanted man - who should be a stranger to her - had turned into something more, much more. Yet, Iris couldn’t shake the feeling that Julian wasn’t a perfect stranger. 

Iris rubbed her thighs absentmindedly, recalling the skill of Julian’s touch, his easy knowing of her body, her boundaries. With lovers who weren’t Asra, there was fumbling, direction, apologies, awkwardness – all normal parts of sex, especially casual sex. But it was if she and this man had been lovers before, finally reunited after a long period of separation. Her and Julian’s lovemaking had been fiery, explosive – but, most strangely, familiar, and comforting. She had known what to do for him, too: pulling hair, scratching skin, giving him direction, permission, teasing. 

Iris stared at her hands, inscrutable under the cloudy water’s surface. She had memories that were just like this – shrouded, foggy, intangible. There were whole years of her life that she couldn’t remember. Her girlhood, her adolescence...nothing before the last three years. Had she known Julian, been his lover, his companion, during those years? But if that was the case, why did it seem as if he didn’t remember her, either? 

She reached for the washrag at the bath’s edge; she washed her shoulders and arms, scrubbed the textured cloth across and under her breasts, dunked her head under the water to rinse her short hair. And then, she thought, there was the name she called out during his climax. _Ilya_…that name, musical, the delicious little syllable int he middle that her tongue had curled so easily around, had stirred something deep in her: not a hotness, but a warmth, a sweetness. 

As Iris washed her shapely legs, she turned the name over and over in her mind, searching fruitlessly for its home. It had meant something to Julian...perhaps it was a pet name? But he had been so confused when she uttered it. And then, there was the sorrow in his eyes when he asked her about it; the name had clearly unlocked something painful in him. Perhaps it hadn’t been hers to say?

Iris finished with her legs and feet, but paused as the washcloth in her hand hovered over the space where her legs met. It was impossible that she would never see the doctor again, she realized. The Universe was not so cruel to entangle two souls only to keep them apart. She sighed again, and wiped away the wetness that lingered on her, despite the bathwaters. She would not get any answers tonight simply by soaking in this tub and worrying; she could already feel a familiar, choking anxiety crawling, spiderlike, up the back of her neck, her skin prickling, her stomach churning. She stood up and stepped out of the water, her heart sure. 

She dressed nimbly and stepped out into the night, the fragrance of oranges and spices lingering on her skin. The cobblestone streets were still slick from the night’s mist, and Iris’s feet nearly glided across them as she wove through the maze of streets and canals to the Indigo Child. Her heart swelled as it entered her view – the light was still on outside, even though Asra was surely in bed at this late hour. 

Using a muffling spell, she soundlessly entered and locked the door behind her, swiftly extinguishing the shoplight with a flick of her wrist. Only the lingering embers in the hearth remained, scattering a soft, shadowy glow across the room. Something smooth and warm slithered over Iris’s foot, and she reached down to pick up Faust, her lover’s familiar. 

_Worry,_ Faust whispered into Iris’s heart, the little snake’s eyes glowing red. For as long as Iris could remember, she could hear Faust’s friendly voice, though every book she’d read on magical familiars insisted only their bonded companions could hear them. When Iris had asked Asra about it, his eyes had flickered coolly, enigmatically, as he stroked Faust’s smooth muzzle; he’d simply said that Faust had always been talkative, too talkative.

“I’m sorry, Faust,” Iris whispered, placing a tender kiss between the familiar’s eyes. “He makes me so angry sometimes. I don’t mean to worry you.” 

_Understand._ Faust’s tongue flicked out cheekily, brushing comfortingly against Iris's skin. She coiled herself up in Iris’s arms and closed her eyes, satisfied with Iris’s answer. 

Iris crept quietly up the wooden stairs without making a sound and lifted the heavy curtain that separated the shop from their quarters. Like the shop, the hearth was dying down – in its feeble light, Iris could see Asra’s sleeping form curled in their bed, the wind rustling the gauzy jewel-toned fabric draped from the canopy of the old, carved cherry-wood bedframe. 

Faust slid out of Iris’s arms and slithered into the bed, coiling herself in the graceful hollow between Asra’s neck and naked shoulder. Silently, Iris removed her clothes and slipped between the sheets, lowering her body into Asra’s outstretched arms. She tried not to disturb his sleep, but he was the lightest sleeper she knew. His eyelids fluttered open, his violet eyes hazy, starry. 

“You came back.” His silken voice was heavy, leaden, with dreams. 

“I did.” Iris kissed his lips gently, then rested her forehead against his breastbone, inhaling his scent deeply – the same oranges and cinnamon as her, woodsmoke, herbs from the shop. “Sleep now. We’ll talk in the morning.” She whispered. 

Asra’s hand found its way around Iris’s waist before he dipped back into sleep. She was quick to follow him there.

*******

When Iris awoke the next morning, pale light from a late sunrise streamed through the bay window. She turned towards the sun and saw Asra’s face, haloed in the light, his lids heavy. He was propped up on one elbow, tracing Iris’s jawline lightly with the back of his bare fingers. The corners of his mouth turned upward ever so slightly as he watched her blink her sleep away.

“You look so beautiful in this light. I wanted to savor the sight of you before I go.” He murmured gently.

Iris turned her head away. Asra laid his cheek down on her shoulder; she could feel his long lashes fluttering against her skin. 

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way.” He muttered before softly kissing the seam where Iris’s neck and shoulder met. 

“Why can’t I at least know where you’re going?” Iris asked, her fingers finding his curly, ash-colored hair. 

Asra sighed. “I don’t want you to follow me. You could get hurt.” Asra’s kisses wandered up Iris’s neck until his lips found the space behind her ear – he paused there, his lips hovering just above her skin, his voice barely a whisper. “Trust me.” He was firm, but imploring. “Please.” 

Iris turned onto her side, meeting his eyes. “I can’t keep doing this, Asra.” Her gaze dropped. “When you're gone, I can't..." She paused, worrying her lip between her even teeth. "Please. Don’t make me worry about you.” She said, finally.

Asra tenderly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “I know, Iris. Soon, I promise.” They laid there in silence for a minute or two, their chests rising and falling in near unison. Then, Asra purred, “I’m glad you came home last night. I wanted to sleep next to you.” 

Memories of the night before flooded Iris. “Asra...” she sat up, extracting herself from his arms. “I slept with someone last night.” 

Asra propped himself up on his elbows, the sheets falling away from his chest, revealing rippling muscles, strong arms, his smooth, amber skin. He looked amused, one corner of his mouth lifting into a soft, patient smirk. “You’re your own woman, Iris. I don’t ever want to limit your happiness.” 

“No, it’s not that.” Iris shook her head. “It was Dr. Devorak.” 

Asra sat up fully, sharply, visibly surprised. “Julian? He’s back in Vesuvia?”

Iris startled, her brows raised. “Did you two know each other?” 

“We...we worked together.” Asra stammered, full lips settling into a plaintive frown. “During the plague.” 

Iris pressed her lips together in thought. She knew Asra had belonged to the small army of doctors, healers, magicians, and scientists who fought back the plague years ago, but he spoke of it so rarely that it always took her aback to hear of it. She knew almost nothing of his life during that time. 

“Asra...it was like I knew him. He was so familiar to me, yet so unfamiliar. He...” her voice trailed off. 

Asra raised one arched, silver brow at her. 

She bit her lip, uncertain how to explain. “It was like he knew exactly what to do with my body. It was passionate, but skillful...like when you return home from your journeys. A reunion after a long time apart.” Iris looked down at her hands. “I called him Ilya?” 

Asra closed his eyes, deep in thought. 

“I couldn’t help but wonder...” Iris continued. “Asra, do you know if we knew each other? During...” She lost her voice again, her words, uncertain how to continue. 

Asra sighed deeply, raising his soulful eyes to Iris’s. “You know I can’t answer that for you.” 

“So you do know something.” Iris leaned forward towards him, her hands tightening into frustrated fists, her lip curling into a tiny snarl of annoyance. 

“Iris.” Asra gently took hold of her arms, tracing her soft skin with his thumbs. “If I tell you my memories of you during that time, you may never be able to recover yours. I can only fill in so many gaps for you.” Asra entreated her. “I don’t want to keep these things from you, Iris. But you...your magic grows stronger every day. Your memories can’t be far behind.” He smoothed a stray lock of hair away from her face. “I hate to ask you again to trust me, but know that I wouldn’t lie to you about this.” 

Tears of disappointment stung, hot and sharp, in the corners of her eyes. “I just want some answers, Asra. All I get are more questions. I hate...” She paused, her voice sour in her throat. “I hate not knowing. Having to rely on you for...” The word caught. Everything. _ Everything. _

“So is the nature of the Universe, Iris." Asra cooed, soothingly, into her ear. "We have no answers, and only gain more questions. We have to rely on others.” Asra gathered her up in his arms again, kissing the corners of her eyes, then her forehead, a bittersweet expression passing over his features. “We’ll be able to share those memories soon, when we’re both ready.”

Iris sighed. “I don’t have much choice, do I?” 

“You always have a choice, Iris.” Asra stared deeply into Iris’s eyes before leaning forward and kissing her. “And you can always rely on me.” 

Iris pulled away gently from the kiss. “Even when you’re leaving, Asra?” 

His eyelashes fluttered against her skin, like torn butterfly wings; he tensed slightly. “Iris, don’t. Please.” 

She felt her shoulders shake slightly. “Then don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.” 

Asra’s brow crumpled; he leaned into her, pressing his forehead to hers, running his hands up her sides, her neck, coming to rest on her cheeks. Iris couldn’t help herself; she mirrored him, her palms on his jaw, her thumbs tracing the elegant swell of his cheekbones. “I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t have to, Iris.” He muttered, voice tinged with something Iris could hardly name, something like despair. “It’s complicated. I wish I could explain.” 

Iris pressed her lips against his, gently. “You always have a choice, Asra.” 

Asra’s eyes sprang open; the ache Iris found in them was raw, but she couldn’t fathom why. For as long as they had been together, Asra was inscrutable to her, an impenetrable void when she tried to see into him with her clairvoyance. He was hiding something from her, something dark and secret, something he was afraid of; it was something that Iris couldn’t help but fear, too. 

“Iris.” He said softly, almost pleading. “Please. I don’t want to fight with you.” 

She felt the fight go out of her at the sound of his voice, so small, so pained. She said nothing, only pressing her lips into his again, an acquiescence, a grace. They kissed, the way they always kissed – soft and deep, their hearts meeting and bleeding together, beating in unison, but the distance between them, the unsaid things, laid heavily between them like another lover in the bed.

Asra placed his hand in the small of Iris’s back, lowering her slowly down onto the mussed purple sheets, warmed by the morning sun, welcoming on Iris’s back. He gently ran his tongue across the part of her lips until she obliged him, allowing him to pass into the sweetness of her mouth. Their tongues danced as they pressed their bodies together; Iris wrapped her arms around Asra’s neck and pulled him even closer. He broke their lips’ embrace to plant greedy kisses on Iris’s cheeks and jaw, trailing up to her ear. 

“Let me make love to you before I go,” he whispered desperately, his breath hot on Iris’s skin. 

A shiver of anticipation went up her spine. She answered by reaching down between his legs and grasping his erection, eliciting a quiet grunt from him, but he moved his hips away. “Not yet,” he muttered, placing a lingering kiss in the hollow of Iris’s clavicle. “I want to please you first.” 

He kissed his way down the meridian of Iris’s body, his hands wandering up and down the tender skin of her sides. When he reached her vulva, he kissed it, lightly, but continued to move downward, alternating long, unhurried kisses between the insides of her thighs, the undersides of her knees, her ankles, until he was sitting back on his feet, his knees spread. He took one of her feet in his hands and started massaging; Iris arched her back and let out a small groan of delight. 

All of Vesuvia knew of Asra’s skill with the arcane arts - communing with the Arcana, healing, brewing potions, and casting protection spells – but few knew of his skill with sexual magic. He could make his touch burning hot, then freezing cold. His kisses could taste like honey, luxurious exotic fruits, salty like the sea. He could make it feel like you were being touched with a hundred hands at once; he created magical barriers that felt like nothing to prevent his lovers from becoming with child or spreading disease. Once, he even levitated himself and Iris so they could make love without the hindrance of gravity. 

Now, his hands grew colder and colder as he massaged Iris’s feet, until his hands felt ice-cold. Iris squirmed a little under his touch, then moaned deeply as Asra raised her foot to his mouth and licked a humanly warm path up the length of her sole, swirling his hot tongue around the whorls of her big toe before taking it into his mouth and sucking. 

While he sucked on her toes, slowly moving down the line so every piece of her had its turn, he couldn’t help but take himself in his hand and pump slowly. Iris moved her hands down her body towards her own sex while Asra watched her with lustful eyes, but as soon as her hand reached between her legs, he flicked his wrist upward and her hands shot up over her head, as if restrained. 

He released his mouth’s grip from her toes with a soft pop, his full lips glistening. “I want to be the one who makes you come,” he purred, turning his attentions to the other foot, which caused Iris to utter another deep moan. 

Once he was satisfied with playing with Iris’s feet and it was obvious she was fully turned on, Asra crawled upwards towards her and planted a deep kiss on her lips before moving back down to her vulva, which now gleamed in anticipation of his touch. He drew closer, until he was just barely touching her with his lips, kissing her so, so tenderly. She murmured softly, “I love it when you tease me.” 

A knowing smile played across Asra’s face. “I love teasing you,” he replied, touching her ever so lightly with his sister finger, tracing her crease up and down. He spread her lips with two fingers and reached in with his tongue, slowly running it up and down the length of her sex, making Iris cry out loudly, before he started circling her clitoris languidly, taking his time with her. 

“You have the most delicious cunt,” he sighed, his breath hot against her lushness. He increased the pressure of his tongue slightly with each pass, until Iris was panting and writhing underneath him. Then he pressed the flat of his tongue against her in a lapping motion, like a cat with a bowl of cream. Iris planted her feet and lifted her hips up slightly to adjust Asra’s angle, and he was quick reach underneath her and grab her ass, kneading passionately. 

Asra increased the speed of his tongue; Iris wrapped her legs around his shoulders and ground her hips against him while she panted his name over and over. It wasn’t long before Iris was in the throes of orgasm, her back arched and her toes curling as Asra plunging his tongue all the way inside her to taste the luscious, liquid heat from her pleasure. 

When her body relented, when she fell back against the sheets, her breath spinning back to her in desperate gasps, Asra crawled his way back up to Iris’s face and kissed her while she glowed, their tongues meeting and melting together. He dissolved the magic that restrained her; they wrapped their arms around each other and rolled over in the bed so she was lying on top of him. He grabbed her ass again, reveling in the ample flesh’s give under his hands. He guided her hips to his – Iris felt his erection throb under her. 

“Are you ready?” He whispered, looking up at Iris with bedroom eyes. 

“Yes.” Iris answered, voice leaden with need. “Are you?” 

There was a soft flash of purple light and a warm energy emanated from him as he cast his barrier spell. He nodded, his licking his lips. Iris started grinding her hips in small circles until the tip of his cock slipped inside her. She hovered there a moment, a smile playing across her lips as she watched Asra. 

“Now who’s the tease?” He groaned, grasping her hips tighter. 

She sat up, placing her hands on Asra’s chiseled chest, making the tiniest movements with her hips, so only Asra’s tip was moving inside of her. He threw his head back, his amber neck long and his face flushed a deep dusky pink, as he bit his lip, restraining himself from thrusting up into her. Slowly, Iris lowered herself onto him, taking in his full length; Asra fairly growled in satisfaction. 

Iris rocked her hips back and forth over Asra’s pelvis, his length rubbing again and again against the most sensitive parts inside of her. She pressed her lips together in concentration but couldn’t suppress a soft, sweet moan; she watched Asra’s face contort with pleasure as she moved against him. He began to pump his hips in tandem with hers, rubbing and smoothing through her while she rode. 

They kept their pace slow, languorous, loving – the two of them could make love for hours – and time dissolved while they moved together. It was only when Iris felt another swell of orgasm, more powerful than the first, that she increased her speed. “Asra, Asra, I’m gonna, I’m gonna...” she panted, and in response, Asra reached down and touched her, rubbing her clitoris with two magic-wet fingers. After a moment or two of this, Iris cried out loudly into the morning light as her body cinched with ecstasy, clenching Asra over and over and over as the void winked back at her, leaving her weightless, boneless.

While Iris relaxed and bliss washed over her, Asra sat up and clutched at her body, one hand reaching to the small of her back, the other reaching down to touch her between the swells of her buttocks, tracing her anus with his lubricated fingers. He buried his face into her chest and continued to thrust up into her. 

Iris savored his touch and met his motions, wrapping her arms around his neck and throwing her head back. They were like for many minutes, until Asra’s breaths began to quicken. “I’m close...” He gasped. A playful smile flashed across Iris’s face. 

“Let me finish you.” She purred.

“Oh, please...Iris...” Asra groaned, closing his eyes. 

Iris pulled herself off of him and knelt down – his hands wound around her shoulders, rubbing them gently. She licked the length of his cock, tasting her own sweetness on his skin before taking the tip in her mouth, running her tongue across the flat of his head over and over. Then, she took his entire length in her mouth and ran her tongue down the seam of his scrotum, up and down, over and over, while bobbing her head against him. Asra couldn’t contain himself for more than a minute of this; he came hotly down Iris’s throat while murmuring her name, digging his fingernails into her shoulders. 

Iris sucked gently on him until she was sure that nothing was left, then she released him with a quiet pop of her lips.

“By the gods,” He whispered, looking down at her with his dark, soulful eyes. “I’ll miss you.” 

Iris laughed, wiping her mouth with her fingertips, letting them pillow against the pressure of her touch, her eyelashes fluttering. “Will you?” 

“Am I not human?” He responded, leaning down to kiss her. Together, they laid back down in the bed, Iris’s head on his shoulder, Asra’s arms wrapped around her. She could feel his heart still pounding, the blood rushing hot through his veins. He reached up to stroke her short hair with long, lazy motions. 

Together they rested, their breath slowing, their bodies glistening in the golden morning sun. The sounds and scents of the nearby market floated in through the open window: fragrant fruits, smoked eel, pumpkin and warm spices. Iris’s stomach growled loudly, making Asra laugh his musical laugh, mellisonant and molasses-slow. 

“It sounds like it might be time for breakfast. I need to head to the market anyway for some supplies. Will you come with me?” He murmured into Iris’s ear. 

Iris felt a pang in her heart, but she answered him with a brief kiss before hopping out of bed. “I should check in at the Raven anyway. I owe Aster for the room.” 

Asra cocked his eyebrow. “But you were here last night. Surely she rented out the room to someone else?” 

Iris chewed her lip thoughtfully. “I left the room to Dr. Devorak. I figured he didn’t have anywhere to go.” 

Asra’s brow furrowed. “Julian has many friends in the city, especially in that part of town. But Iris...” He paused for a moment, his face thoughtful, eyes far away. 

She regarded him; she was floored by his handsomeness, his full lips, squared jaw, the way his curly hair fell into his dark eyes. He came back to her like a spark in the night, his eyes bright, clear. 

“Please…” He began, his lips parted around something he couldn’t quite say. “Be careful with him. I won’t tell you to stay away...but he’s reckless, complicated. The only thing he loves more than his own suffering is melodrama.” 

Iris smirked a little. “I thought you didn’t want to limit my happiness.” 

“I don’t...but I do want you to be safe.” He leaned forward, his beautiful, strong body arching towards her, his reverent eyes taking in her naked form, saying everything his lips, his voice, could not. “He’s not a good man, Iris.” 

Iris turned back to him, looking over her shoulder as she opened the massive wardrobe. “And I’m not a good woman, Asra.” 

Asra’s brow furrowed; he opened his mouth once, then closed it sharply. Then, he sighed heavily, his eyelashes fluttering as he looked way – he reached to absently pet Faust, who was coiled lazily on the bed’s corner. “You don’t know him like I do, Iris.” He said, finally, quietly. 

Iris smiled, an affectionate warmth spinning through her as she turned back to the wardrobe, selected a bell-sleeved peasant blouse from her side of the closet, one she knew Asra loved her in. “I’ll be careful, Asra. I always am.” 

Asra’s mouth slipped into a coy, knowing smile, and his eyes sparkled; he wisely said nothing.

*******

It was nearing midnight; it was a new moon, and the winding streets and shimmering canals of Vesuvia seemed shadowy, uncanny. Asra believed that moonless nights were the perfect time for the beginning of journey – even better on a new moon, the earthside realm slipping into its ritual reckoning. Iris wasn’t so sure; her nerves felt taut, electric, as Asra prepared to leave hr.

Now, he was adjusting the straps of his worn leather satchel and packing the last of his supplies. He fastened his final button, then looked to Iris, who held out his heavy maroon shawl, the velvet worn down and threadbare with years and years of use, of love. She wrapped it around his shoulders and fastened it with a touch of magic, a soft opalescent light emanating from her fingertips. 

“I’ll miss you.” He took her hands in his, kissing her fingertips. “Please know that.” 

Iris smiled sadly. “I do. I know.” 

He looked down at her, his eyes glittering. “I have something for you.” He reached into his pockets and procured his Tarot deck, its gleaming gilded edges, it’s sharp but delicate linework, all handpainted by Asra, the figures drawn from a book on the Arcana from his distant childhood. 

Iris reached for it, then hesitated. Asra’s deck was much more powerful than hers – it almost spoke in its own voice. She looked up at him, questioning. He nodded, smiling, and she took it from his hands; it felt hot, like a stone from a fire, practically pulsating with power, threatening to scorch her if she wasn’t careful. And yet, it was welcoming, the heat spreading through her like a long-lost friend, like a distant memory reclaimed.

“Do you want a reading before you go?” Iris asked. 

Asra grinned broadly. “I would love that, Iris.” Iris deftly shuffled the deck. She went to draw the card, but Asra placed his hands over hers and pulled her into a deep, lingering kiss, his tongue swirling into her mouth needfully. 

After a moment or two, the heat between the two of them nearly unbearable, he pulled away slowly. “Let’s see what the cards say.” 

Iris flipped the card from the top of the deck over; it had been practically singing to her, begging to be seen, to be heard. “**The High Priestess, reversed. **” 

“And what is she saying to you?” Asra asked softly, his dark eyes velvety with something, something Iris wished she could divine as easily as she could these cards, their voices whispering to her clearly, cacophonously. 

She closed her eyes and listened; suddenly, her eyes fluttered open, glinting with clarity. Asra caught his breath – it had always astounded him how clearly Iris could hear the cards; he knew she couldn’t see the brief flash of light that swam across her pupil, bright bright white, ringed with rose pink, sky blue, soul-orange. 

“You’ve forsaken her. You’ve pushed her away and buried her voice. She calls out to you, but you won’t listen.” Iris pursed her lips together thoughtfully. “If you don’t listen to her...” 

A sharp knock at the shop’s door interrupted her, startling them both. “Did you leave the lantern on again?” Asra teased, his brow cocked knowingly. 

“Like you didn’t leave it on last night.” Iris retorted with a chuckle. “I’ll go see who it is.” 

Asra pulled her into another quick embrace, kissing her hair before pressing his forehead to hers, his palms ghosting against the swells of her cheeks. “Just as well. I can’t stay any longer.” His gaze lingered on her, darting across her features as she covered his hands with hers, nuzzled her brow into his. For a moment, they were still, still as the silence that settled over them; then, another rap, louder, more insistent, brought them back to their corporeal realm.

Asra let go of Iris, a little unwillingly. He let his eyes lock with her one last time. “Take care of yourself, Iris. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

He turned away and parted the curtains soundlessly, slipping out the back door. Iris gazed after him with a pang in her heart, well after the latch clicked closed behind his cloaked back, before she turned towards the knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: I call fuxjing shenanigans on the devs saying Asra doesn’t have a foot thing. HE’S A GEM; he’s into everything, y’all. Our sweet sensual prince._   
_(For those who are curious, Iris is a Capricorn, because the devs did Caps DIRTY. Stay tuned for my Ted Talk.)_   
_See you in the High Priestess. _


	3. The High Priestess: Another Soul to Be My Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Chet Faker - Gold **
> 
> _ CW: Some violence _

The knocking at the shop door continued, insistent; Iris scrunched up her face, mildly annoyed. _This better be an emergency,_ she thought fiercely as she crossed the worn wooden floor, the planks creaking under her weight. It wouldn’t have been the first time she or Asra brewed a childbirth-easing potion in the middle of the night. 

She wrenched open the door – a tall, hooded figure swept inside past her, unbidden, hands twisting anxiously. Iris immediately noticed the opulent rings that decorated her shrouded patron’s fingers – the most delicate gold bands, beetle-sized emeralds, glimmering moonstones; and she immediately smelled their perfume, bright, sweet lavender, earthy, heady jasmine.

“Forgive me for the hour,” they crooned, their voice velvety, womanly. “...But I will not suffer another sleepless night.” The patron reached up to unpin the feathered brooch from their headwrap. Their voice was full, sonorant – but sweet, feminine, even, as if they had been trained to speak clearly from birth. Iris could sense they were nervous by the way their hands shook, their shoulders trembled. 

The headwrap fell away, and a tumble of long, luxurious hair fluttered over her shoulders, the hue changing and shimmering like amethysts. “You must be Iris Keshet; I have seen you in my dreams for weeks now. You must read the cards for me. It has to be you.” 

Iris’s heart leapt into her throat – it was her turn to feel nervous. It was the Countess Nadia Satrinava, the estranged but sitting ruler of Vesuvia, rumored to have been cloistered away in Prakra for the last three years. Beautiful and cultured as she was, she was not known for her patience with the arcane nor her suspension of disbelief – though, Iris thought darkly, at least she was not her late husband, the Count. 

Iris squared her shoulders back, raising up her breastbone, puffing her chest out slightly. Even if her nerves rattled her, she could at least act professional. “You’ve come to the right place.” 

An amused smile flashed across the Countess’s lips. “So I’m told. Your reputation precedes you. The people of this city whisper your name in wonder. You’ve almost surpassed your esteemed mentor, Asra.” She glanced down at Iris, surveying her clothes, the patterned purple harem pants, her worn, cream-colored peasant blouse with billowing bell sleeves, a simple woven vest, embroidered with faded lace. “Though in my dreams you were...different.” Nadia straightened. “No matter. I have a proposal for you.” 

Iris raised a dark, thick eyebrow at her guest. “Tell me more.” She gestured to the overstuffed cushions at the low table in the secluded backroom, behind the thick velvet curtain studded with suns, stars, and moons, embroidered long ago by Asra with gold and silver thread, and held out her hand for the Countess. 

Nadia took her hand out of courtesy and sank to the floor with one long, graceful movement. “I would require very little of you. Be my guest at the palace for a short while.” She smiled a half-smile, the left corner of her glossy, burgundy-lipsticked lips turning carefully. “You will be afforded every luxury, of course.” Nadia eyed her clothes again, her disapproval thinly veiled. 

Iris sat down across from her at the low table, crossing her legs, surveying the Countess carefully. Nadia bit her lip, chewing it thoughtfully before speaking again. 

“I only ask that you bring your skill...and the Arcana.” She looked expectantly at the deck in Iris’s hand. It seemed to have jumped there on its own. _Damn,_ Iris thought. It felt natural in her hand, like a limb she didn’t know she was missing. 

“I am at your service, Countess.” Iris dipped her neck respectfully, but Nadia waved a hand at her dismissively. 

“None of that nonsense. You are to my guest. We will be equals. Perhaps friends.” For a moment, her eyes betrayed her, and Iris saw, with a flash of vivid clairvoyance, that the Countess was deeply lonely. “I will alert the guard to expect you tomorrow.”

Nadia leaned forward on her elbows, expectant. “But first...I want to see these talents for myself.” 

Iris nodded absentmindedly, absorbed in the cards. She shuffled the deck skillfully, the cards slipping through her hands liquidly, smoothly, like water, like wine; then, with a flourish, she laid down three cards on the broad, circular table. She flipped over the first. It was the **eight of swords**. 

“This card represents your past.” Iris murmured, her voice low, her eyes clear and vivid with concentration. “You’ve felt trapped, powerless, out of control. Often, we feel that these restraining emotions come from outside sources, but they can also come from within ourselves. You may have had to change your beliefs or shed some baggage to move to where you are now.” Iris’s gaze flitted up to survey the Countess – her gaze was stony, her narrow, arched brows furrowed. 

“Continue.” The Countess urged, her chin raised in a gesture Iris could not interpret without her clairvoyance.

Still, the young magician obliged, flipping over the second card. **The Magician**. “How very appropriate,” The Countess muttered. 

Iris pursed her lips in thought. “The Magician is a card of action. He has everything he needs – a wand, a cup, a sword, a pentacle. He represents self-empowerment, purpose.” Iris paused, her eyes darting up to meet the Countess’s. “You have a plan…one that that you hold close to your heart. You seek to set it in motion now.” 

“Should I move?” The Countess implored, her eyes wide, piercing. Iris finally saw that Nadia’s eyes were a deep garnet red, streaked with the same shifting purples as her hair. 

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Act now. Everything has fallen into place. The Magician implores you; do not waste this moment.” 

Nadia closed her eyes slowly, savoring Iris’s words. “What of the last card?” 

Iris flipped the card over. It was the **queen of swords**. Iris smiled, fully, sweetly. 

“The queen of swords. She’s a just and balanced ruler, using her intellect, experience, empathy, and intuition in tandem. She seeks the truth above everything else. She is able to rule without the influence of anyone else – she is independent, all that she needs. She is known for her fair judgment.”

Iris looked up. “A very auspicious reading. The cards are not so kind to everyone.” 

“Indeed.” Nadia rose from her seat and extended her bejeweled hand to Iris. Iris, bemused, grasped it, shaking it lightly. Nadia’s eyebrows shot up almost to her hairline, and then she burst out laughing. 

“It was for you to kiss my ring. You are a strange woman indeed, little magician.” 

Iris laughed a little, too, but she couldn’t suppress the flush that crept across her cheeks. “I’m not very good at these formalities. It comes much more easily to Asra.” 

A knowing smile flashed across Nadia’s face. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard how fond your mentor is of you, and you of him. He is welcome at the palace at any time. You may even share your quarters, should you choose.” She added cheekily, her eyes twinkling.

The Countess stood abruptly and threw back the curtains, striding across the room towards the door, hardly leaving Iris a moment to blush as she wound her shawl around her face once more. She reached for the doorknob, but Iris called out quietly to her, “Wait.” 

Iris rushed behind the dusty, glass-topped counter and rummaged through the bottles and tinctures on the high shelves behind her until she found what she was looking for – a small, opaque bottle, but the tincture smelled fragrant, its scent wafting even through the strong magic seal. She knelt on the wooden floor behind the counter, worn weary by decades of careful footsteps, and quickly drew a circle with her sister finger, using only the lightest pressure. Nadia leaned over the counter, her interest piqued. 

In the circle, she traced several swirling figures, so quickly that Nadia could barely follow her movements. Then, Iris clapped her hands together in front of her mouth and blew. A soft pearly cloud, like a curl of dust, floated out of her mouth, settling on the bottle. Iris picked the bottle up and rubbed the dust off on her shirt before placing it in Nadia’s outstretched hand. 

“It’s a tincture of valerian and chamomile, with a touch of lavender and rose. Two drops under the tongue before bed should do the trick.” Iris’s eyelids fluttered, her gaze dreamlike. “Asra made something like this for me when I would have terrible nightmares. I’ve laid a dreamless sleep blessing on it.” She wrapped Nadia’s hand around the bottle, and rested her hand on the Countess’s. “Sometimes when one magician’s magic doesn’t work, two will do.” 

Nadia smiled coyly, her eyes shimmering with a soft, gentle understanding. “Especially when the magicians are so intertwined. Thank you.” She pocketed the tincture and stepped out into the night. “Until tomorrow. Pleasant dreams, dear Iris.” 

With three dance-like steps, she practically vanished into the mist. Iris wondered after her for a moment, her body arched in the dark of the night, before she extinguished the lantern with a lazy flick of her wrist and locked the door behind her with a solid click of metal on metal. 

No sooner than Iris locked the door that one large, leather-gloved hand grabbed her wrists and twisted them together in a tight lock behind her back. She felt the tendons give way in one of her arms, and she cried out in pain, her lips twisted into a grimace, her voice high with anguish. Another hand grabbed her neck, practically swallowing it in its massive grip, and pushed her face roughly into the wooden door. 

Iris felt a swell of panic as the intruder’s full weight pressed into her; their grip on her neck was so tight that she could only see out of her peripheral vision. The intruder was wearing a metal medical mask that scraped against the exposed skin on her shoulder, the beak composed of grotesque, twisted steel. The pungent smell of bitter medicinal herbs infiltrated her nose, and she suppressed the urge to retch. 

“Strange hours for a shop to keep.” The stranger growled; it was a man, his voice distorted and echoing in the hooked metal mask. “You’re clearly not the white-haired witch, so I’ll ask you once. Where is he?” 

Iris took as deep of a breath as she could with her airways constricted and summoned everything inside herself – in this new moon, her magic was especially weak. Still, she was able to muster enough to force the intruder back with a flash of shimmering, undulating light. He flew backwards into a shelf of potions, shattering several bottles. 

Iris stumbled behind the counter and grabbed the dagger stowed there. A sharp pain sizzled in her damaged arm, the knife slipping in the grip of her dominant hand; she switched it deftly to her other, brandishing it towards the interloper. 

The blast had knocked him onto his back, stunning him momentarily. It had also unseated his mask; with no time to readjust it, he pulled it off and tossed it brusquely aside. He made to lunge at Iris, but stopped cold as he caught a glimpse of her face. Her eyes darted over his features – the one wide gray eye, a long, roman nose, thin but shapely lips, unkempt auburn hair – and she gasped softly; Iris would know him anywhere. 

“Julian!” she exclaimed, then winced in pain. She pulled her sprained wrist closer to her body, protecting it. “What...” 

“Iris?” His eye widened in shock. “What are you…?” 

“I live here, you shit! This is _my_ fucking shop!” She slammed the dagger’s hilt onto on the counter, magic eking out of her in her anger; the jars on the shelves behind her rattled cacophonously as her magic, white swirled with soft orange, sky blue, rose pink, spiraling angrily around them. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” She cried. “Can’t watch a brute manhandle a woman, my ass.” 

Julian cowered like a child caught with his hand in the candy jar; his shoulders rose up, and a rosy flush flooded his sallow cheeks. He stood up and slowly approached her; instinctively, Iris backed away, dagger brandished wildly forward. 

“I’m sorry, little witch. I didn’t know...” he glanced down her wrist, which was now pulsating in pain, and the other hand, which still held the dagger. He looked back up, meeting Iris’s gaze unblinkingly. He raised his hands up in surrender. “Do what you will with me, but let’s put down the knife.” 

Iris let it drop from her hand, clattering on the floor. He glanced down at her wrist again, true concern blooming over his features. “Let me take a look at that wrist of yours – it looked sprained.” 

“You’re the one who sprained it, asshole! I can heal it myself.” Iris snapped, but as soon as she said it, she felt herself growing dizzy. She’d used too much magic; it wasn’t flowing back to her as it normally would. She braced herself against the counter, her face contorting with pain as her vision spun wildly. 

“I’m sure you can.” Julian advanced and scooped her into his long, muscled arms with one smooth motion. “But let me take care of it tonight.” She didn’t resist; she could hardly keep her eyes open without going cross-eyed, she was so woozy. 

Julian carried her up the stairs to her and Asra’s flat, setting her down at the benched around the table by the hearth as if he owned the place. He knelt down in front of her, swung off his cloak and deftly removed his waistcoat. He then unclasped the satchel from around his waist and undid the hooks with a series of solid clicks – Iris saw that his bag was filled with medical supplies, bandages, tinctures, poultices...

He removed his gloves, biting again at the tips of his fingers, pulling the leather away with his even, white teeth. “I’ll need you remove your arm from your sleeve, if you can.” He instructed, and Iris obeyed without question – she gingerly slipped her arm out of her vest and pulled her arm from the sleeve of her loose peasant top. 

Julian located a squat bottle in his knapsack, marked with a scribbled caricature of a plume of smoke. “I must warn you...” he looked up at Iris through his tousled waves, a coy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “This smells like the Devil’s ballsack, but it’ll relieve the pain and fix you up before you can get your panties untwisted.” He pulled the stopper out with his teeth and the noxious smell filled the room, like a musty wet dog fart.

“That’s atrocious.” Iris muttered as she wrinkled her nose and leaned her head back, away from the source of the smell. “And your bedside manner is questionable at best. Do you treat all your patients this way?” 

Julian chuckled, taking the stopper out of his teeth and sticking it back in with a quiet squelch. He was already done applying the poultice to her skin; she hadn’t felt a thing, no pain, no pressure. 

“Just the attractive ones, I guess.” He smirked. He was unrolling a bandage now, wrapping it sturdily around her dominant wrist. He ripped the unspooling fabric with surprising strength and secured the bandage with an expert knot. “You should keep this elevated – I’ll fashion a sling for you if there’s a long scarf you can spare. Limit your use of this hand for now, at least until the swelling goes down. Cold and ice will help with that.” His hands lingered on her wrist, and then he pulled them away, blushing faintly. 

“That was impressive.” Iris examined his handiwork, finding it practically flawless. He stood and turned his attention to the ornately carved wardrobe, as if he knew exactly where Asra’s scarves were. “I didn’t think you were an actual doctor.” 

He snorted, surveying his choices, his fingers trailing over the fabric. “I’m not exactly a _licensed_ doctor, but I’ve been practicing for over a decade at this point.” He quickly selected a sturdy scarf of deep purple, and strode back over to Iris; with his long legs, it was hardly a step and a half. “You learn more on pirate ships and battlefields than you ever will at a university. If I had gone the academic route, I would just now be getting my hands on actual live humans.” 

He knelt down in front of her again and leaned forward, wrapping the scarf around her twice, adjusting the length so her arm rested comfortably. Iris could smell his potent scent, see the bloom of hair under his collar. He looked down at her, their faces only inches apart. He smirked. “Who would you rather trust with your body, Iris?”

Iris felt the heat rise to her cheeks and circle through her belly. “Julian...what are you doing here?” 

He laughed, softly, and sat back on his feet, admiring his own handiwork now, resting his chin in the crook of his thumb and his forefinger, the brand on his hand on full display. “Asra and I have some unfinished business. I figured he would be asleep by now. When I saw you, I thought you were just a shopkeep. I was going to knock you out after I got answers.” His eyes softened, meeting hers. “I honestly didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

Iris wasn’t buying it. “But you came here to, what? Hurt Asra? Is that it?” 

Julian trained his gaze to the floor, his expression darkening. 

Iris gestured towards the bed, to the bedroom around them. “Do you see two beds here, Julian? Asra isn’t just my mentor. We live together. We’re lovers.” 

Julian’s face twisted into a roguish smirk, one long, white finger tapping his thin, sculpted lips. “I thought a shopkeep here this late might be offering more services than just minding the books.” His one visible eye bored straight through Iris. “Besides...that makes it more fun, doesn’t it? He and I could compare notes.”

Iris made to kick him, playfully, but he caught her ankle with one hand. He held it for a moment, the smirk never leaving his lips; his large hand landed on her other thigh, long, skilful fingers caressing pillowy flesh. “Besides...I don’t mind sharing.” He said, his voice low, honeyed. “I know Asra doesn’t either. In fact...” He slowly pulled apart her legs and leaned forward, running his hands up to her hips. “It would turn him on to know we’re doing this here...in his bedroom.”

“You think so?” She responded silkily, levering her hips up towards his lips.

“I’m sure.” Gently, he pulled her to the edge of the chair and wrapped his hands around the waistband of her pants, tugging them down. Iris went to lift her hips, but winced, inhaling sharply as she went to lean on her elbow, which twinged her wrist.

“Are you okay? Is this okay?” Julian stopped, his brow knit with concern for her. 

“You’re fine...but I’m not going to be of much use to you with this.” Iris said, reaching out to touch Julian’s hair with her unhindered hand. He leaned his head into her hand, like a dog begging to be pet. He licked his lips and looked at her with his heavy-lidded, long-lashed eyes. 

“Then let me take care of you tonight.” He said, pulling her loose pants down around her ankles. He kissed the inside of her thighs gently at first, his lips just brushing against her skin, but eventually his hunger got the better of him; by the time he’d reached her hips, he was sucking at her tender skin, hard and greedy, alternating his way up to where Iris felt herself growing dewy, undone. When he reached her wetness, he paused, glancing up at Iris; the pupil of his visible eye was blown wide with lust as he ran his tongue up and down her crease, gently parting her lips, exposing her swelling clitoris. 

With the lightest pressure of the tip of his tongue, he tasted her, making Iris shudder and throw her head back, gripping his hair more tightly. He flicked his tongue over her with the lightest upward motions, over and over, until she was ready for more. 

“Harder,” she whispered; her voice was half whine, half order. 

He practically dove in, wrapping his lips around her and sucking lightly, his tongue still flicking, now with more pressure. Iris gasped and arched her back – Julian grabbed her hips roughly and pulled her closer; something like a grunt of pleasure escaped from deep in his throat. She writhed and whimpered under his skill as she felt the swelling, the light, growing in her body. 

They were like this for some time, Julian responding to her cries of pleasure, riding her swells like an experienced sailor while she built up to her orgasm. When she threw her head back and moaned, “I’m close, Julian, Julian...” He increased his speed, almost frenetically. She came quickly, her body arching, her voice caught in her throat as she bit hard down on her bottom lip, Julian clutching at her, sighing with satisfaction as she rode out her roiling ecstasy against his tongue. 

As she whimpered through her afterglow, he gathered her in his arms and laid her down on the woven rug by the hearth, which now was burning low, just as it was when Iris returned home from Julian’s arms last night. He kissed her, roughly, their teeth knocking together and their tongues roving; but he carefully pulled her shirt over her head, sure not to disturb her arm. She was naked now, and he still fully clothed. As if reading her mind, he met her gaze and pulled off his loose shirt with one practiced, fluid motion. 

For a moment, he towered over her, his long torso, the muscled chest and taut stomach in full view; Iris’s eyes traveled down the thick path of hair like chiaroscuro that started below his collarbones and wound its way into the waistband of his leather pants. His smirk widened, his one visible eye trained on her. “Like what you see?” He purred, his voice low, knowing. 

Her good hand reached up to touch the rolling landscape of his chest. She let her hand linger over his pale skin, his soft, silky hair, tracing the deep shadows cast by the low light, before reaching the crotch of his pants. She could feel his erection coiled against the warm leather; she cupped it, kneading gingerly. 

Julian reached down and undid the long row of buttons that held his pants together; Iris grabbed the waist and pulled it down. His narrow hips were just as defined as his chest and shoulders; even looking at him from the front, Iris could see that the swells of his glutes were delicious. From a dark tangle of pubic hair sprung his erection, long and thick.

Iris took him in her hand, then hesitated. She reached down and touched herself, wetting her fingers, before reaching up and grasping him. Julian groaned quietly, closing his eyes; Iris closed her fist around him loosely and started pumping with fluid motions. She sat up and took his tip in her mouth, her lips meeting the crook of her hand. He moaned now, throwing his head back on his long, elegant neck, and Iris felt his hand brush through her short, shorn hair, lazily coiling it in his fingers. She closed her eyes and focused on her task. 

He pumped his hips gently against her, groaning as, for a few minutes, her lips, tongue, and hand worked in concert on his pleasure alone. Then, she wrapped her tongue around him as she sucked; from Julian it elicited a shiver, but he carefully pulled away. 

“As much as I’d love that, I had something else in mind...” he muttered, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her back down onto the rug. He lowered himself until he was sitting on his feet again, his knees together in front of him. He wrapped his arms around Iris’s hips near the seam where her legs met the space between and he lifted, shifting her forward until her shoulder blades practically touched his knees, her torso draped over his legs, her ass nestled in his lap. She wrapped her legs around him, her ankles crossing behind his lower back.

He reached down for his satchel, fumbling, his eyes never leaving the breathtaking sight of Iris’s body sprawled out in front of him. He procured another sheepskin barrier and slipped it over his cock with a deft, practiced motion. He took himself in his hand and guided himself to her, stopping just short. 

“Are you ready?” He asked through parted lips, his voice quiet, reverential, as he waited for her to take the lead; Iris nodded, inhaling deeply. With a soft, quiet whimper, he slowly pushed through her, inch by pleasing inch, making her gasp and throw her head back; he paused, biting his lip in delight while she pulsated, accommodating him. 

Then, he began to thrust, slowly at first – the abrupt angle caused Iris to cry out with pleasure, her eyelashes fluttering as he stroked, expertly, softly, against the little secret inside of her. He clutched at the tender flesh of her thighs and jostled her hips up and down in sweet tandem with his movements, increasing his speed steadily as he pressed into her. 

They moved together in the firelight for several minutes – the bedroom seemed to melt away around them, dissolving in their unabashed bliss. Julian reached out and grabbed Iris’s free breast, fondling it roughly; she threw her head back and let out a throaty groan. 

“Julian...oh, Julian...” she sighed, as each thrust increased in strength, in pressure, against her pleasure. A smirk danced across Julian’s face; as a reward, he swirled his thumb against her clitoris, drawing a strangled whine from Iris.

“You bastard...” She panted, rolling her head back. “I need more...fuck...fuck me harder...” 

Julian’s mouth dropped open in a licentious moan, and he obediently obliged her, raising himself up a little for more leverage. 

Iris took note, her lips raising in a playful sneer. “You...you rogue...” she growled, and raked her fingernails hard down his chest, red welts jumping up on his pale skin. The words spilled out of her, easily, as they made love; Julian’s sounds became more and more guttural with each name, each filthy sound Iris made. It was only a few more minutes before he bit his lip, hard, until he drew blood; with several shaky grunts, he came, his movements slowing against Iris’s raised, giving hips. 

For a moment, they were still, the soft puffs of their breath the only sounds in the night. Julian bent his neck and kissed her knee, his lips lingering there while his breathing slowed. She reached up to embrace him, forgetting her arm – she drew a sharp breath as pain jolted from her wrist. 

Julian’s hands swept out to help her untangle herself from him; he wrapped an arm gently under her shoulders to help her stand. She realized she was pretty knock-kneed, still reeling from orgasm, from him being inside her. 

“It’s late. You should sleep, you’ll heal faster.” Julian walked her to the bed, carrying most of her weight across his broad shoulder; he deposited her carefully across the lavender silk sheets, curiously keeping his distance from the bed. 

He stretched his back, the defined muscles across his broad chest rippling. With an unhurried motion, he took off the used barrier and threw it into the remnants of the fire; it caught quickly. He began to gather his clothing. 

Iris sat up, carefully, on her good arm. “You’re leaving?” 

Julian smiled coyly, shrugging into his low-slung shirt. “Are we playing questions again?” 

“It’s dangerous. It’s a new moon.” Iris said quietly, her voice low as she sank back into the familiar embrace of her bed.

Julian laughed. “If you remember, I’m the thing people should be afraid of in the night.” His features softened, turning his gaze to her. “But if you’re so worried, I’ll stay...at least until you fall asleep.” 

She patted the bed next to her, but he shook his head, pulling his pants up around his waist with a gentle creak of leather. “I may be a bastard and a rogue, but I have some boundaries.” He sank into the blue velvet dressing chair next to the bed; he rested his chin in his hands, gazing at Iris. 

“What to ask you...” he drummed his fingers against his cheek. “How long have you been Asra’s apprentice?” 

“About three years.” Iris answered as Asra’s warm scent enveloped her, like an unbidden memory – it made her heart ache, even with Julian there with her. 

“Curious timing.” Julian said, mostly to himself, his head cocked. “What do you remember of the last masquerade?” 

Iris raised her eyebrows. “It’s my turn, isn’t it?” She thought for a moment. “What happened between you and Asra? Why do you hate each other so much?” 

Julian tutted. “That’s two questions.” He held up two impossibly long fingers – they practically glowed white in the low light of the stuttering fire in the hearth. “Asra and I have history. We didn’t part ways on good terms. That’s all you really need to know.” Julian’s eyes clouded over as he looked down, his sharp features coloring with a soft flush, his lip worried between his white teeth. “And hate is a strong word. But I can’t speak for how Asra feels.” His eye darted back to Iris, steely and stormy gray. “The last masquerade.” He urged her.

Iris shook her head as she lowered herself into the sheet, letting herself sink into her bed’s familiar warmth; it still held Asra’s scent, the smell of herbs and smoke, oranges and cinnamon, the comforting aroma of his sleepy sweat. “It’s a waste of a question.” Iris explained. “I don’t remember anything before the last three years. My earliest memory is waking up in Asra’s arms. In this bed.” Iris’s head twinged; she took a deep breath, counting to seven before exhaling. 

Julian leaned forward, resting his chin in his steepled fingers. “There are studies that show some people who were close to the plague lost their memories of those years. I’ve read other reports of people with complete amnesia, like you. Some experts speculated it was because of all the experiments done in attempt to find the cure...vapors in the air, chemicals in the water, the canals. Others thought it was a symptom of the plague itself.” 

He closed his eyes, his dark lashes fluttering as he recalled painful memories. “As for what I think...the plague was vicious, relentless. Everyone knew someone who died. I think some people blocked out the trauma just to survive. I can’t fault anyone for that.” He regarded her, his gaze gentle, painted with something like pity. Guilt, Iris realized. “I hope your memories return to you soon.” 

“Me, too.” Iris murmured, closing her eyes. Sleep would descend on her soon; she could feel it, tugging against her eyelids, the edges of her consciousness blurring with comfort, with safety. “What is your last question?” She whispered as she pulled the bedclothes closer, under her chin, over her waist, her bare breasts.

Julian blushed, his eyes darting away from the movement that drew his gaze to her bare body. “I...” He paused. “I don’t even know if I have the words to ask the questions I have. If you...if you would even have answers for me, little witch.” 

Iris’s eyes fluttered open, surety sparkling in her eyes. “Do you want to ask the cards? They often know the answers before we even know we have questions.” 

Julian pursed his lips, his tongue poking between them in thought, an intimate expression that made Iris’s heart pound in her chest. “I don’t really...believe in that.” He explained quietly, his voice low, embarrassed. “I know you read my cards last night, but that was a...a pretense. A ruse.” 

“You don’t have to believe to ask. Bring me the deck. It’s downstairs.” Iris entreated him, sitting up, the sheets pooling around her naked waist. 

Julian cast a sideways glance at her, dark brows knitting skeptically, but he rose from the chair, disappearing through the curtained doorframe. Iris heard his graceful, thudding footfalls on the stairs; it stirred in her another bittersweet longing for Asra. 

After only a few quiet moments, Julian reappeared in the curtained doorframe, stooping slightly to not hit his head across the low transom. He handed her the deck; she realized it wasn’t Asra’s, from the fortune-telling room, but her own, its rainbow colors and bold, inked linework, from the shop’s glass-topped counter. With a low, slow breath, she shuffled her own deck skillfully, even with only one good hand at her disposal. 

She pressed the deck back into Julian’s hand. “Take the top card.” She murmured. 

Julian hesitated; then, with a low, quiet sigh, he slid the top card from the deck and flipped it over. **Death**. A crow’s skull, desiccated feathers. Webbed bird bones, decaying in the dirt. 

He let out a soft laugh, but the steeliness in it made Iris’s blood run cold. “You’ve got to be joking.” he sneered. “Death cast her gaze on me and looked away. A wretch she taunts with her fickle favor.” 

Iris looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise. He was flushed, his fist clenched, but his one visible eye betrayed the swell of pain that broke over him, like a wave from the Quiet sea, whispering to them in the still night. She placed her hands over his. 

“Death is a friend.” She said quietly, her voice careful, smooth as satin. “Without Death there is no life...we all crawl into her embrace in the end.” She drew his fingers into her careful grasp and kissed each of his fingertips, one after the other. “But she isn’t just an end – she is a beginning. In some cultures, it’s Death who pushes the baby out of her mother’s womb. There are no lessons worth learning that Death doesn’t write herself.” 

“Without Death...there is no life…?” Julian echoed her, his gray eye softly tracking each of her tender movements, each touch of her lips on his tender, pale skin.

Iris nodded sleepily. “They are one and the same.” Her eyes were growing heavy, and her head was starting to ache. “I have to sleep now, Julian...” 

His lips turned into a proper smile, his first of the night. “Sweet dreams, then, darling.” He murmured as he sank back into the blue velvet dressing chair. “You’ve given me something to gnaw on, little witch.”

As her lids fluttered against the swell of her cheeks, she reached her hand towards his. “One more question...” She whispered, her sweet voice soft, and certain.

Julian looked up. In the dying firelight, that undulating darkness, reds and oranges and blues dancing together over his snow-pale skin...he looked so achingly familiar to her, as if he had always been a part of her, always been something she reached for in the night. 

“Do you feel like you’ve known me a long time?” She asked, her voice waning.

He looked up at her, his gaze soft, his eye cloaked in a strangeness Iris couldn’t unfathom, a darkness she couldn’t bring herself to dip into. “Yes.” He whispered, so quietly she barely heard him. 

“_Do_ you know me? Do you remember me?” Her voice was desperate and quiet, even as she sank further, deeper, into the dressings of her and Asra’s shared bed.

Julian chuckled, his voice deep, but she sensed a crack in his careful façade. “That’s three questions, now,” he murmured, his thin lips slipping into a quiet, pained smirk. Then, he turned away from her.

The last thing she saw was his profile, eye trained on the swirling, miststained sky, the low glow of the moonless night illuminating the blackened brand on his hand as he ran his fingers through his auburn hair, as a wince of pain rippled in his brow. Then, the realm of dreams claimed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: I don’t know how many of you are Jenna Marbles fans, but whenever I write ‘Julian!’ as an exclamation, my mind always reads it as jJJUUuLlLlLiiiAAANNnn-UUUUUUJUJUHHHHH. Which is fun for me. I hope it’s fun for you now too. _
> 
> _How about that Muriel update? Khamgalai deserved better, y'all. No more women in fridges, please. _
> 
> _Also. If you don't think Julian (who is not just a doctor – he is an INFECTIOUS DISEASES doctor) is NOT wearing condoms while he’s hoing around, you’re wrong. Sorry. You won’t change my mind about this. _
> 
> _See you in the Empress, bb. _


	4. The Empress, Part 1: A Heart From the Past That I Cannot Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Florence + The Machine - Queen Of Peace **
> 
> _ CW: Brief images of rape _

Iris’s dreams were strange. 

In one, she was dancing, twirling, wildly, wildly, so fast the tavern around her blurred, so fast she barely registered that the eyes of those watching her, hungrily, angrily, were dyed crimson, furious tears of blood streaking their cheeks. Her partner, so familiar, so achingly familiar, strong arms that lifted her as easily as the sea, the scent of rum on his breath, stormy gray eyes trained on her as if she were the sun...oh, how he clung to her, desperately, desperately, his long fingers digging into her back, her shoulders, her arms – he lifted her over him in a graceful swing, but she slipped through his grasp like she was made of mist, and fell – the wind echoed through her ears, the floorboards were gone, she was sinking down, down, her lungs filling with thick cold – 

In another, she was standing between two massive curved marble staircases, dressed in an opulent gown of white and sequins and real flowers, unearthly blue, twined around her shoulders, her waist, her hips. In front of her was roiling throng of people dressed in rags, some hacking piteously, some shivering uncontrollably, all of them blinking at her with wide eyes, the sclera stained horrifically red. 

There was music – a piano was playing, accompanying a low-throated vielle, a song that Iris didn’t recognize but knew, she _knew_, in the marrow of her bones; she opened her mouth to sing, but no sound came out, she had no air in her lungs, her satin-gloved hands flew up to her neck desperately as her gaze landed on the distorted thrones across from her. A woman, beautiful, her amethyst hair twisted around her collapsed, contorted body, a wineglass shattered in her hand – next to her, legs crossed imperiously, foot bobbing impatiently, a hulking blonde man sneered at her, his ice-blue eyes flashing, the red of his sclera glimmering, ferocious, devouring – 

In the last, she was floating on her back – everything shimmered blankly, white and nothing. Above her was the white nothing, below her was the white nothing. The only sound she heard was the deafening crush of silence – not even her own heartbeat, not even her own breath. She was surrounded by cold so cold it was warm, she was numb; she, too, was nothing in this nothing. 

And then she heard it, so soft and faraway at first she thought it was a trick, a voice that sent the faintest whisper of heat down her center, and her heart fluttered uncertainly – a tiny gasp rattled in her unused lungs, her blue lips trembled. A flailing shape, all colors, warm amber and cloud purple and hate green and love white, swam down – up? – towards her frozen form, growing closer and closer as it clawed hopelessly through the thick, unyielding nothing. 

He – he? – stretched his golden hand out towards her, fingers covered in mismatched rings, oh, she could see his eyes now, why, why were they the color of violets, why were they wide and wild and violent with desperation, why did he tear apart the silence with his screams, his screams of her name –

*******

Iris awoke with a shout as she tumbled over the edge over her wide bed, tangled in her sheets, and landed sharply, sharply on her side, her hip. She hissed with pain, then whimpered, curling into the fetal position – her head split with pain, like someone had boiled her brain in her skull.

Lips trembling, tears spilling, her hands swam to her forehead, pressing softly into the pressure points Asra had showed her, and she breathed, she breathed, seven counts in, seven counts out, until the pain subsided enough that she could blink open her eyes without wishing for Death instead. 

It was well past mid-morning; she was late, she realized, the sounds of the market floating up through the bay window the bed was nestled in. Iris knew next to nothing of the intricacies of court, but even she knew better than to keep the Countess waiting. She sat up slowly, careful of her dully throbbing head, and glanced around the room – it was empty, painfully empty. Julian had said he was going to leave as soon as she fell asleep, but not-secretly, Iris had hoped he would stay. 

Her gaze fell to the bedside table, where her Tarot deck rested. A sheet of fine, translucent sketching paper was tucked underneath it – Iris carefully extracted it. 

It was a beautiful, soft graphite sketch of her in her sleep, her head cradled in her arms, the bedsheets hugging her every curve. One foot stuck out from under the covers – even her toes, curling against the sole of her bare foot, were carefully detailed and shaded. She noticed she wasn’t wearing her sling in the sketch; she glanced down and turned her wrist over on its hinge. It was completely healed, the dressings gone. Iris screwed her nose up in confusion, and turned her gaze back to the drawing. 

He’d left a simple note in the corner of the sketch, scrawled in sloping doctor’s script, almost impossible to read. _I couldn’t resist...Until our paths cross again… -J. _

A pang of regret gripped Iris – she knew of no way to contact Julian, aside from hoping he was still staying at the Raven. Still, she had trusted fate last time to bring them together again; she sensed that they were not done with each other. Her head twinged again, painfully – for a moment, she sat there, her head resting on her knees, the sketch in her shaky hands, wondering how she was going to make it to the palace. 

On days like this, when she woke up with nightmares she couldn’t remember and a headache so profound sounds came to her in colors, she would stay curled up in bed, not opening the shop, not eating, not drinking, until she finally drifted to sleep, or the agony finally subsided, or, on the worst of them, Asra finally wandered home. If Asra was there, if she woke up in his arms like this, all it took was a soothing whisper in his native tongue, a wash of gentle golden light, a lingering kiss on the lips, to chase her pain away. But when he was gone –

_You’ve weathered worse,_ Iris told herself, biting her lip as she stood, legs wobbling. Asra wasn’t here, so she had to take care of herself. This is what she asked for, did she not?

Slowly, slowly, she packed her small satchel with a few changes of clothes, both hers and Asra’s decks of Tarot cards, a few toiletries and personal care items. Her hands lingered uncertainly over the sketch, the dull ache between her eyes protesting; finally, she carefully inserted it between the leaves of a reference book before packing it as well. 

She changed into a purple velvet tulip skirt and a cropped peasant top which complimented her shapely shoulders. She thumbed on a pair of gold hoops, simple but fine. She and Asra did not own many expensive things, let alone anything that Iris would consider appropriate for an audience with the Seat of the realm; but, at the very least, this skirt brought out the violet undertones of her eyes, and the gold earrings were a thoughtful, elegant detail that drew the gaze up to her face. She bit her lip in careful consideration, then slipped on a pair of simple leather sandals; it didn’t seem right to waltz into the palace with bare feet. 

Finally, steeling herself, Iris wrapped a heavy sky blue shawl around her shoulders and slipped out the door of the shop, deftly closing all three locks and casting a powerful impervious charm on the front door. However Julian got in last night, he certainly wasn’t going to be able to do it again, she thought as she summoned the magic to her fingertips, as it dissipated through the worn wooden door and faded into the morning’s ether, as her head throbbed again and she blanched, suppressed a whimper. Her temples cradled between her thumb and her mother and brother fingers, she turned on her heel to rush out into the morning throng and promptly ran headfirst into the bare chest of a stranger. 

Iris backed up a few steps and instinctually reached for the athame strapped to the swell of her thigh, but the sight in front of her gave her pause. The stranger was massive and wearing an entire bearskin as a cloak over his broad, muscled chest, etched with a horrifying map of deep, jagged scars. His hair was lank, dark, but from under one thick eyebrow, Iris could see a soulful, gentle green eye. Suddenly, she was not frightened by him – in fact, he felt oddly familiar, her soul leaning towards his, his presence almost comforting, soothing.

Iris realized he was blocking her path; she straightened her posture and squared her shoulders. “Excuse me,” she said clearly, carefully, and took a step forward. His gaze never broke from her, and when he spoke, his low, hesitant voice rumbled like distant thunder. 

“**Perthro. Ansuz, reversed. Nauthiz. Thurisaz, reversed. Laguz.**” The stranger, not stranger, closed his eyes, and his features tensed with pain. “He seeks to return, but you hold the key. He will offer you a trade, a choice, in exchange for that key; turn it away, or you’ll fall into his hand, and put us all in grave danger...” 

Iris blinked, confused, her eyes roving across the stranger’s face, searching for something to read, to latch on to, but he was inscrutable, just like Asra. Without further bidding, he moved out of the way, and Iris darted ahead, out from under his boring gaze. She went to look back at him, to memorize his face, his features, but she turned away; she had already forgotten about their encounter. 

Iris’s feet thudded against the makeshift wooden walkway of the market, which was humming with the morning’s industry. Around her, conversations buzzed like the murmurings of a hive of bees as vendors hawked their wares – she heard her name though the din, and turned; it was the Selasi, the baker who made her and Asra’s favorite bread. 

“Iris, have you eaten?” He called, his voice raucous and deep, like a lion’s roar, rising easily over the rumble of the market. He was pulling a set of pumpkin loaves out of the squat wood-burning kiln in his shop, careful and skillful even as his amber-eyed gaze turned towards Iris. 

Iris’s stomach growled, but she didn’t have time to stop. “Another day!” She called, waving jovially to him, even as her headache surged, though she didn’t quite know why. 

“Nonsense!” With a furtive glance around the market, Selasi left his stall for a moment and hustled to her, pressing a hot-out-of-the-oven loaf of bread into her hands, wrapped carefully in cheesecloth. 

“You’ll need your strength if you’re to make it to the palace by nightfall.” His blonde eyebrows wiggled, almost reaching his receding hairline. Iris smiled – word certainly traveled quickly through this part of the city. She touched the coin purse at her hip, but he stopped her, a soft, a flour-cracked hand stretched, fatherly and familiar, over hers. 

“Just remember me when you’re a favorite of the Countess.” He said with a wink before rushing back to man his shop. Iris smiled, breaking off a piece of the sweet-smelling bread to nibble while she picked her way through the crowded street. 

After a few blocks, Iris saw that the street ahead of her was completed congested – she ducked into a twisting stairwell, knowing it would take her a little further out of the way, but she’d avoid the crowd. There were a few doorsteps tucked into the narrow, sloping alley, along with a fortune-teller’s booth, a colorful tent tucked into a shady, clandestine corner. 

Across from the fortune-teller, seated on one of the worn stone steps, was a boy of no more than six, his clothes ragged and his dark hair matted. He was playing a roughly carved ocarina, a lilting, simple song that was achingly familiar to Iris; at his bare, dirty feet was a little roughskin pouch with a few pentacles in it, from the generous few whose hearts still twinged at the sight of plague-orphans and street urchins. They were a common enough sight in Vesuvia that many had learned to ignore them, to avert their eyes, especially if their pockets were well-lined with gold.

Iris smiled gently at the boy and dropped in the pentacle that would have paid for her breakfast. “Have you eaten, _fy bach i_?” She asked softly, and broke off a substantial chunk of the pumpkin loaf. “My eyes were bigger than my stomach this morning.” __

_ __ _

__

He eyed the food warily, carefully – then outstretched his hand, letting Iris place the bread in his palm. “Thank you, miss.” He said softly, not meeting her eyes.

“No, thank you.” She said, grinning now. “For your pretty song. Keep practicing, okay?”

He nodded shyly, and went back to his ocarina, playing a livelier little tune, a waltz – it was now that a young patron backed out of fortune-teller’s stall, bumping into Iris. 

“Oh, shit!” The stranger cried as the basket she held against her ample hip upended itself, sending the small mountain of pomegranates tumbling to the ground. Thinking quickly, Iris snapped her fingers and shimmering, opalescent sparks arced through the air; the fruit froze in their frenzied descent, rotating in mid-air like little magenta planets on taut wire; the little boy gasped, eyes wide.

The pretty stranger looked up, surveying the scene with shock – her hair was a tumble of springy ginger curls, barely tamed by a simple but elegant headband. Her face was sprinkled with freckles, her full lips parted in surprise. 

Iris quickly gathered the fruit, some suspended mere inches above the filthy stairs, and deposited them back in the stranger’s basket. The young woman’s thick eyebrows arched, but a sly smile played across her face. 

“Are you Iris Keshet?” She asked, her voice high and sweet. Iris narrowed her eyes warily, but the stranger extended her hand. 

“I’m Portia. I work at the palace for the Countess. We’re expecting you.” She laughed quietly, a series of soft, seal-like barks that Iris couldn’t place, and she felt an unbidden feeling of nostalgia, warm and comforting, swim across the skin of her arms, her neck. The young magician took the redhead’s hand and shook it firmly – Portia’s grip was strong, her palm calloused, even though her hands were small.

Portia raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “A firm handshake...I like that. There’s a carriage waiting for me after I finish my errands. Come with me.” She winked, as if the two of them shared a juicy secret. “It’s much more pleasant than climbing seven thousand steps, trust me.” 

Iris smiled – her feet had already begun to smart in her sandals. “That would be lovely.” With a little wave, a friendly smile to the boy, she was whisked away, her hand in Portia’s. 

Iris followed a few paces behind the handmaiden as she finished the rest of her errands, checking in on an order for a tonic at the herbalist’s, picking up a small tub of a very expensive facial cream from the druggist, placing an obscene order of lavender buds with the florist. The tiny handmaiden wove expertly through the crowds, and if it weren’t for her melodious soprano, absentmindedly singing the lyrics to the song the boy was playing, Iris surely would have lost her. 

_“There was someone that I knew before...a heart from the past...that I cannot forget...” _

At the final stop, a fussy bakery in the Heart that specialized in miniature marzipan replicas of exotic fruits and animals, Iris caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eye, and she wheeled around as if prodded with a hot poker; across the crowd, she saw a man in shadow no more than fifty paces away. His back was turned away from her, but his gray eye watched her carefully. It widened as she met his gaze – Julian. 

Her head sizzled with pain, her mind’s eye suddenly inundated with images of her dancing, swirling colors, warm arms encircling her, lifting her into the air – then, she was jostled as a woman with a gaggle of boisterous children bumped into her, turning her around as she fought to stay on her feet. When she righted herself, Julian was gone; he’d slipped away into the shadows. 

“That should be the last of them...” Portia stepped out of the bakery, reviewing her list one last time. “Are you ready, Iris?” 

Iris winced and bit her lip, but nodded, turning to Portia. The young woman led her easily to the noisy, crowded square, where a plain but elegant carriage of finely painted wood pulled by two beautiful mares with mottled gray coats were stationed, awaiting the handmaiden’s return. 

Portia stepped up into the carriage and offered her hand to Iris, practically pulling the young magician into the cabin, shutting the door behind her with a snap. It was as if someone had laid snow over the entire noisy square – the cacophony subsided, and Iris could clearly hear her thoughts again. 

Portia rapped on the wooden ceiling of the cabin, and the carriage lurched forward; she then heaved a deep, satisfied sigh, tucking her tired feet up underneath her. “I’m sorry we couldn’t talk much out there. It’s just too loud.” Her eyes glimmered conspiratorially. “It’s exciting to have a guest of honor at the palace, especially such a talented magician.” Portia’s eyes roved over Iris, her wanderer’s clothing, her shorn hair. “Milady had her seamstresses up all night to work on fine outfits for you, and asked the chefs to prepare a very special dinner for tonight. She may even ask for the Golden Goose.” 

Iris swallowed back the nausea that roiled in her stomach at the mention of alcohol, her head aching dully again. “Portia...I’ve never been to the palace, ever in my life. Is there anything I should know?” 

Portia’s bright blue eyes softened, kindly; again, Iris felt a rush of familiarity, one she couldn’t quite place. “If Milady invited you, you’re supposed to be there. You’ll learn the etiquette quickly. If you’re as kind and polite as you were to me today, you’ll do fine.” Then, Portia laughed once, with something like a seal’s bark, a sound that made Iris’s heart ache unknowingly. “Just be sure to bathe! There’s nothing that Nadia hates more than dirty guests.” 

Iris raised her eyebrows, a knowing smile curling out of the corner of her mouth. “Nadia…?”

Portia stammered, her eyes wide. “Oh, I mean...the Countess...Milady...” 

“Not everyone can get away with being so familiar with the Countess and live to tell the tale.” Iris said, leaning forward, resting her chin on her hand. “How close are you with her?”

Portia’s lips flapped silently as she scrambled to recover. “The Countess is not as unkind as her reputation. And I’ve worked with Milady’s household for two years now, so I’d say I know her quite well.” 

Iris smirked, one thick brow raised, but she said nothing more. Suddenly, the carriage stopped. _Surely we can’t be here already…? _Iris thought, but Portia was gathering her baskets and dismounting the small set of steps that had been placed by the cabin’s door. 

Iris stepped out and blinked away the sunlight – the palace took up the entirety of her view, the golden, whitewashed spires gleaming in the highnoon sun, polished ivory towers extending into the pale sky like a Buddha’s hand, outstretched and bountiful. Iris’s breath caught in her throat; it was enchanting, discombobulating, like something out of a children’s story. She had caught glimpses of the palace from the Market district where she and Asra lived, but seeing it up close made her even more aware of her rough clothes, her lack of manners. 

“Iris? Everything all right?” Portia paused and turned, her baskets balanced precariously on her hips and in her hands. Iris was suddenly very grateful for her escort – without Portia, surely she would have gotten lost in the looming mansion ahead. Tentatively, she stepped forward past the wrought iron gates, which slammed shut behind her with an ominous clang of metal on metal, sending a chill up Iris’s spine.

Together, the two women crossed a towering ivory bridge over a deep moat; Iris glanced down and saw the translucent vampire eels wriggling in the waters below, their long bodies coiled into unfathomable Gordian knots. She shivered – Asra had told her of Lucio’s obsession with them, of his insistence on bringing them here to guard the palace. She knew how miserable they were in the warm, stagnant waters of this land – how the harsh ecology of their prison made them savage, deadly. She drew her eyes up and away from the water, trained on Portia’s frame; they came to a second pair of wrought-iron gates, which swung open without question, letting them into a sumptuous courtyard.

Without so much as a glance to the beautiful landscaping around them, Portia crossed the yard to the intricately cast-copper front doors and knocked, three confident and sonorous strokes. Once the metallic echoes faded, the doors swung open, and Portia quickly ushered Iris inside.

The opulent entryway, the winding halls that followed, nearly blinded Iris – their vaulted ceilings and Corinthian columns, all carved in bright white stone, were polished within an inch of their lives, even though there wasn’t a soul in the hallway, save for a guard or two. A steward appeared, practically out of nowhere, and spirited away the baskets in Portia’s hand; on his heels was an extremely short and wizened person with a blue velvet cap, adorned with an enormous peacock feather. 

“How are we on time?” Portia asked them, setting off in a brisk walk down the hallway; Iris quickened her pace to keep up. 

“Your timing is impeccable. Dinner will begin in two hours.”

“Perfect.” Portia turned to Iris, her eyes glittering mischievously. “We have plenty of time to prepare our guest. Tell the kitchen and Milady’s household that Iris has arrived.” 

Two chambermaids – two identical young women with wavy brown hair – materialized at Iris’s side, grabbing her lightly under her arms and leading her in the opposite direction that Portia was walking. 

“I’ll see you soon, Iris – enjoy your bath!” Portia called after her, before disappearing around the corner. Iris was whisked up an elegant but clandestine stairwell to a long, well-lit hallway – the guest wing. 

The twin chambermaids ushered her through an ornate quartz archway to a large bathroom, where a quartz bathing pool was full to the brim with fragrant, gently steaming water; Iris was relieved that the scent, peppermint, rosemary, and lavender, soothed her still-pounding head. They quickly undressed Iris and plunged her into the warm water; they scrubbed her skin and scalp, massaged conditioning oils into her hair, trimmed her fingernails, toenails, and eyebrows, and masked her skin with a detoxifying purple mud, before leaving her in the fragrant waters to soak until her fingers and toes pruned. 

When they returned, one of the twins was carrying a beautiful, thin robe of sky-blue silk, embroidered all over with a pattern of delicate pink peonies. They scrubbed the mud off Iris’s skin and threw the robe over her shoulders before leading her down the hallway to a bedchamber – her guest room. It was ridiculously large, much larger than her and Asra’s entire flat, with a massive king-sized bed, a vanity, a desk, a full-length mirror, an opulent wardrobe, and an overstuffed chaise lounge set by the floor-length windows, which lead out to a luxurious balcony. Her things, gathered from her satchel in the bath, were already set out on the desk and vanity.

The women sat Iris down at the vanity and began their work – one kneaded soft beeswax through Iris’s short hair until her soft waves were lifted and sculpted away from her eyes, while the other massaged sweet-scented moisturizing oil all over Iris’s body, including under her breasts, over her buttocks, and between her thighs. Then, they turned to her face – the first dabbed rouge and powder over her cheeks and lined her eyes with a kohl stick that she burnt with a match before dragging, expertly, over Iris’s eyelids, while the second painted Iris’s full lips with a soft pink lipstick that smelled of foreign roses. 

The first brought her a fine outfit while the second finished lining her lips. It consisted of a richly embroidered off-the-shoulder top with large, long, sweeping sleeves, in a delicious cerulean color; the bottoms were a gauzy pair of white palazzo pants with the same embroidered pattern around the waistline. They deftly dressed Iris, and, carefully considering their work, brought her a small case of jewels – glittering sapphires, amethysts, and emeralds – all selected, Iris realized, to bring out the blues and purples of her eyes. After a moment of dazzled hesitation, Iris chose a short, simple gold necklace of opal, which seated itself in the dip of her clavicle. 

“An excellent choice,” the first woman murmured. The second lead her to the full-length mirror so she could examine their handiwork. 

Iris hardly recognized herself – her cheekbones, her brows, her lips all expertly enhanced with their artistry, the outfit Nadia chose accentuating her best features – her shapely waist and shoulders, the swell of her hips. She blushed, thinking of all the care that had gone into dressing her. 

“You look lovely.” The second twin said, a touch reticently – perhaps she’d noticed Iris’s trepidation. The first twin smiled slightly, encouragingly.

“Thank you,” Iris whispered, before a knock rapped on the door. 

Portia bustled in, now in finer clothing – a deep forest green frock and simple gold jewelry. Her eyes widened when she saw the young magician. “Iris, you look absolutely divine. Primula, Ami, your work is masterful, as always.” The twins both blushed and curtsied at Portia; she nodded to them graciously, then turned to Iris. “Are you ready to dine with the Countess?”

“...As ready as I’ll ever be, I’ll suppose.” Iris stammered.

She tried to memorize the path Portia took her through to the main dining, room, but Iris’s eyes swam with every sight in the dazzling palace – exquisite greenhouses, elegant sitting rooms, never-ending hallways. When they finally arrived at the dining room, Portia knocked three times, then threw open the doors. 

“The magician Iris, apprentice to the magician Asra, Milady.” 

Nadia, dressed in an elegant dress of lavender silk, embroidered all over with couch florals and encircled with a train of lavender and seafoam tulle, was seated at the head of the table, which was absolutely laden with roasted meat, delicate vegetables, and foreign sweets. She rose from the table, and Iris noticed that Portia curtsied at her side, so she dipped into a curtsy, too. A placid smile swam over the Countess’s face, and she gestured to the chair next to hers at the head of the table. 

“Iris, it is lovely to have you; you are an absolute vision in cerulean. Please, sit.” 

Iris sank slowly in the elegant mahogany chair beside the Countess’s seat at the head of the table, but she was overcome with a feeling of familiarity, not unlike how she felt when she was with Julian. The chair seemed to warm at her presence, the soft wood molded to exactly to her shape. Even this vantage point of the Countess – a three-quarter profile, the delicate hair ornaments, the faint scent of jasmine and lavender – all seemed achingly familiar, painfully natural. 

Iris surveyed the rest of the luxurious dining room, her eyes landing on a painting that spanned the entire length of the sizable table. It showed a veritable feast of small animals for the predators of the forest – the owl, the bear, the fox, the wolf, the cat, the raven – and seated at its center was a terrifying goat man, the eyes red and strangely lifelike. Iris could not repress the shudder that swam down her spine.

This did not escape Nadia, as servants swept in and placed the soup course on their plates – roasted leek, garlic, and potato. “What do you think of the painting?” She asked Iris, dipping her spoon into the golden liquid in front of her as another servant poured the two large glasses of delicate white wine.

Iris paused, uncertain, but this was enough of an answer for Nadia. “It’s grotesque, isn’t it? It was a favorite of my husband’s. I find sometimes that it spoils my appetite.” 

Iris bit her lip. She never knew the Count, but Asra had told her enough of his time at the palace to know he was a dangerous man – even in death. Nadia, sensing her hesitation, set her spoon down gently.

“You may speak plainly here, Iris. I know this may be overwhelming at first, but I have asked you here for your counsel, not for your diplomacy.”

Iris considered this carefully before answering. “I do find it unsettling, Milady. The colors are beautiful, though. The reds, especially.” 

Nadia nodded. “Indeed...I find myself thinking about the red of his eyes long after I’ve left the room.” They sat in silence for a moment, until their soup was gone – the servants swept the bowls away, and served up a roasted root vegetable salad from a nearby bowl. “The goat in the middle is supposed to be him…Lucio. Showing him providing for his people.” 

Iris surveyed the painting thoughtfully. “He’s not just providing, though. There’s more food than his guests can eat, at the sacrifice of the smaller animals. It’s wasteful...” She thought of the little boy with the ocarina, wondered if he had a safe place to stay the night.

Nadia looked up at Iris through heavy-lidded eyelashes, her garnet eyes dancing. “Indeed, Iris. Indeed. He loved to spoil his allies.” She watched Iris curiously as she began to pick at the salad. “Did you ever attend the masquerade?” 

Iris swallowed, savoring the taste of the spicy vinaigrette that coated the root vegetables and greens. She considered how to answer without revealing too much. “I didn’t, Milady. I could never afford a costume.” 

Nadia regarded her through slightly narrowed eyes. “It is true that the masquerade was an extravagance, but it was much beloved by the Vesuvian people. I know that it is a bit of a sore spot among our citizens – it is overwhelmingly missed, and it reminds us how deeply we were all affected by Lucio’s murder.” Iris nearly choked as she finished her salad; quickly, the servants whisked her plate away, and served her from the delicately spiced braised lamb and roasted potatoes that adorned the center of the long table. 

As she raised her fork to her mouth, she thought of the last masquerade. She knew of the rumors surrounding the Count’s death, not from Asra, but from Aster, the crowd at the Raven, her friends in the market, the grapevine of gossip that had sunk its tendrils into Vesuvia’s shaky foundation. The only consistent story was that the Count retired early to his chambers, and by midnight, his body had been consumed by flames. One suspect was arrested, and supposedly tortured into confession – Dr. Julian Devorak, a friend of the court, and the Count’s own trusted physician. Iris thought of Julian’s long, elegant hands, the brand stark against his pale skin. By the time dawn spread its gentle fingers into the sky, Julian had somehow escaped into the morning. 

Nadia sighed, and laid aside her fork. “Iris, you are probably wondering why I have summoned you here to the palace. The truth is, I have been planning this for some time.” She paused, as if for dramatic affect. “I am holding the masquerade again this year, on what would be Lucio’s birthday. It will be an experience, as much as any other masquerade previous.” 

Iris felt the air twist around her as the emotions of the servants and the guard flooded into her. They were shocked, but also scared; Iris realized that not everyone remembered the masquerade as Nadia did. 

The Countess dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “There is just one loose end that I would like to tie up, and that is where I am asking for your help. The doctor who confessed to Lucio’s murder still roams free. I would like you to locate him and bring him to me.” 

“What will you do with him if I bring him to you?” Iris asked, careful to keep her voice even. She couldn’t help but remember Julian’s touch on her thighs, his kisses, his voice, from the nights before – a heat swelled in her, and a fear. 

Nadia’s eyes narrowed. “The people of Vesuvia deserve justice for the murder of their ruler. It falls to me to bring it to them.” 

Iris frowned. “You didn’t answer what you will do with the doctor, specifically.” 

Nadia’s face softened. “Of this, I’m not sure. But it is most likely that he will be killed.” 

A surge of knowing rose through Iris, and she whirled back to the door by the kitchen, her magic arcing as she outstretched her open hand; opalescent sparks wrapped themselves around a delicate dessert and a bottle of wine just as they were about to shatter on the tiled floor, pausing their descent. Portia’s hands were shaking, her lips trembling. 

Nadia stood up, the chair sliding out from underneath her noisily. “Portia...” 

“Forgive me, Milady. Slippery hands.” She quickly collected the dish and the wine and deposited them into the hands of a servant, turning tail and retreating into the kitchen. 

Nadia’s eyes traced the doorframe for a moment, before returning her gaze to Iris; the servants served up the dessert, a flaky pastry stuffed with chocolate custard, and the rich red wine. Nadia sat again. “I have seen it in my dreams, Iris. You are the one who will bring him to me. If anyone can help me find him, it is you.” 

Iris said nothing; she dug her fork into the delicious-looking sweet, but her appetite was waning, her headache returning. 

Nadia continued. “I cannot say that I was overly fond of my husband, but I would relish seeing the man who brought such chaos to Vesuvia be brought to justice, even if that means the masquerade would begin with a hanging.” 

The images flashed, vivid, sickening, across Iris’s eyes – Julian’s long body, stretched taut, his elegant neck bowed backwards – she set her fork down with a timid clink, her appetite gone. At this, the Countess rose from her seat; Iris, instinctually, stood up as well.

“Iris, I have given you much to think about. I do not expect your answer now, but I will need it by this time tomorrow. Portia.” 

Portia returned from the kitchen. Iris could see that her eyes were now red and bloodshot, but if the Countess noticed, she said nothing.

“Portia, please return Iris to her bedchambers; she has much to think on tonight. Tomorrow, Iris, if you have further questions, I will be happy to answer them at breakfast. I look forward to our partnership, should you choose it.” Nadia’s eyes glittered, a genuine smile stealing across her face. She waved her hand at Iris, dismissing her for the night, reaching for the wineglass on the table and taking a hearty drink. 

Iris bit her lip and said nothing, but a powerful pain shot through her temples, swelling into her brain; Portia grabbed the crook of her elbow and whisked her into the hallway. 

The handmaiden was taciturn as she lead Iris back to her room – this time, through the main hall, up a grand and sweeping marble staircase. Iris didn’t pay much attention; she was gently massaging her temples, taking seven breaths in and seven breaths out, trying to ease her resurging headache. 

As they reached the landing for the grand staircase, a chill rose up Iris’s spine. A set of massive, elegant staircases stood before them; one, decorated with rich tapestries, frescoes, and delicate lights of gold filigree; but its mate was of dark marble, unlit, and smelling of soot, ashes, and something like fear. On the first neglected step laid two long, muscled bloodhounds with bright red eyes, not unlike the goat man from the painting in the dining room. 

They raised their heads sharply, their ears at attention, their eyes boring straight into Iris. For a moment, she thought they would strike, then an apprehension rippled through her like a fever.

_My my my, what do we have here…?_

A voice whispered to her in the back of her mind – Iris felt as if icy fingers were wrapping around the nape of her neck, squeezing a little too tightly.

_I remember you...those pouty lips, those exquisite tits...that delicious neck...the pretty fool…I knew you couldn’t resist me..._

Iris steeled herself, focusing – quickly she drew a circle and a five-pointed star on her chest. The protection glowed white-hot on her chest like a brand, and the nasal voice disappeared with a soft yelp. Out of the corner of her eye, Iris thought she saw movement at the top of the steps, but when she went to look, there was nothing there. 

The pretty fool…?

“Iris.” Portia’s singsong voice rang through the hallway, soft but insistent. Iris wheeled around, face to face with Portia, the spell still glowing on her chest. “Are you all right?” 

“I...I heard something.” Iris touched the neckline of her shirt – the spell’s sigil was fading. “It spooked me, I guess.” 

Portia nodded once, reaching out and touching Iris gently on the shoulder. “The staff hears voices coming from that stairwell to the Count’s wing all the time. No one goes up there, not since...” 

Iris nodded fervently. “Let’s go.” 

“Of course. You’ve had a long day.” Portia wrapped her arm gently through the crook of Iris’s elbow and led her the rest of the way to her bedchamber.

Once inside, Portia wasted no time turning down the linens. “You look as if you’re ready to drop, so I won’t keep you. But if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Portia’s lips twisted into a genuine smile, but Iris sensed a deep sense of unease, distraction. 

“I do have a question, if you’ll forgive me for asking.” Iris said. 

Portia raised her eyebrows. “Of course. What is it?”

“You dropped dessert at dinner. Is everything all right?” 

Portia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Iris knew she was calming herself, preparing her answer. 

“We were all so excited when the Countess announced we would be having a guest. Milady rarely entertains, and she seemed so happy. Yet...” Portia’s gaze flitted away from Iris. “To think she asked to come here for something like this...”

Portia paused, and looked straight into Iris’s eyes; it was then Iris noticed the light, bright blue was mottled with light, stormy gray, like Julian’s. Iris saw that what Portia had said was a half-truth, but sensed that the real truth was dangerous, either for Iris or for her – or both. 

Portia continued: “For the first time since I can remember, the Countess is hopeful. If anyone can help her find the truth, it’s you.” Portia lingered in the doorway a moment, her expression even. “Is that all?”

Iris nodded, turning over what Portia had just said and not said. The young woman curtsied, and then slid the door shut behind her. 

Iris sat down on the closest surface – the pouf situated in front of the vanity. She turned and regarded herself in the mirror, still shocked at how fine clothes and cosmetics had magicked her into someone unrecognizable. There were several pots of creams, oils, and lotions on the vanity – Iris found one that looked promising, a thin oil that smelled of camellia flowers, and massaged it into her skin, dissolving the powder, rouge, and kohl.

There was something Portia wasn’t telling her, Iris thought as she examined the tubs of moisturizers, settling on one that smelled faintly of the sea. While the Countess wanted to see justice for what was done to her husband, Iris had noticed a hesitation to declare Julian outright guilty for the murder. 

Truthfully, Iris was burning to uncover Julian’s secrets, too – Asra had all but told her they once knew each other once, and every time they held each other, Iris felt at home in Julian’s arms. Her intuition whispered to her that the truth was not so simple as Julian killing the Count in cold blood, but she would need more than her intuition and clairvoyance to prove it to Nadia, and to Vesuvia itself. 

She already had her answer, she realized, as she dropped a few drops of fragrant rosehip oil onto her face and pressed it gently into her skin. She would assist Nadia; she would gladly give her skills for the Countess’s purpose. But she needed to be careful not to show her cards early – not until she was certain of the truth. 

Then, there was the voice she heard in the stairwell, the one that called her the pretty fool. Why did it also feel so familiar, and why did it raise the hairs on Iris’s neck just thinking about it? 

A warmth crept up Iris’s spine as her vision blurred around her. She felt as if she were sinking, falling, her body spinning, feverish with unbeckoned heat, until she found herself seated again at the mahogany table in the dining room. 

_Again, Iris was seated at Nadia’s left, but the table was full of people, the room echoing with the cacophony of silverware clanking, chatter, laughter. Iris was dressed in finery – a shapely white dress with a massive tulle collar, jewels, fragrant whitewinter lilies braided into her long blonde hair. This must be a memory, Iris realized with a leap of her heart._

_She scanned the party for familiar faces, and startled to see Julian, dressed in a richly embroidered dark blue suit, seated at the opposite end of the table, at the left hand of the table’s head. The man seated next to him, his body draped lazily across an ornate throne, was unmistakable – it was Count Lucio. His ice-blonde hair was slicked back with greasy pomade, and his eyes were slashed with menacing swirls of kohl, symbols that Iris knew came from his past as a prince from the warrior tribes in the south. _

_He was a large, imposing man – approaching Julian’s towering height, but stockier, barrel chested, the well-defined musculature from his days as a mercenary swelling under a tight, ornate waistcoat and white leather pants. His fearful alchemical arm, curved blades for fingers, gleamed golden in the candlelight. His eyes fell on Iris, and she shuddered – the sclera of his eyes were bright red, making the ice-blue of his irises seem to glow white. His narrow lips twisted into a grin, his eyes leering – and Iris was inundated with fantasies of her and him, his hands around her neck, his cock crammed painfully into her rectum, her struggling to get away, her screaming... _

_She felt someone touch her hand, and she jerked it back with a gasp. She wheeled on the transgressor, the guest sitting across from her at the table – it was Asra, dressed in an elegant shirt and vest, his eyes wide with concern, confusion. _

_“Iris, come back to us.” He said softly. _

_“Yes, where did you go this time?” Nadia asked, a smile playing across her face as she took a large swig from her glass of sparkling pink wine. _

_Iris hardly missed a beat. “I was trying to imagine what Procurator Volta wouldn’t eat. Do you think she would even eat her own foot if it was served to her, roasted and covered in cream sauce?” _

_Nadia let out a musical laugh, and Asra chuckled obligingly, but he was watching Iris carefully. She couldn’t meet his gaze – she glanced back down the table at Julian, who caught her eye; he smirked conspiratorially and raised his eyebrows playfully. With a furtive glance at Lucio, who was now loudly berating a servant, Julian raised his hands to his throat in a choking motion, his eyes squeezing shut and his tongue rolling, comically. _

_Iris’s gut twisted and she swallowed hard – she felt the sharp sting of bile in her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Julian’s eyes lit up in alarm as she turned away, her neck bowing as she threw up in the space between the chairs... _

Iris gasped, as if cold water had been thrown into her face – her head felt as if it had been cleaved in two. She could barely stumble onto the bed before she passed out, the pain sinking her into a welcome oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: Y’all aren’t getting a smut with every update. Iris is a H O R N Y S L O O T but even she can’t be getting it in all the freaking time._
> 
> _Lucio is obsessed with power and control, so it ‘s not a stretch to me to imagine him getting off to rape fantasies. My apologies for the potentially triggering scene. I do my best to provide content warnings for triggering content, but miss something, please please please do not hesitate to provide the feedback to me. Your safety and comfort is my priority with this fic, always. _
> 
> _And like, if you’re looking for a sympathetic portrayal of Lucio, ah...idk yet fam. It’s complicated._
> 
> _See you in Empress 2. _


	5. The Empress, Part 2: My Past Erased As We Lay In a Daze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Little Dragon - Thunder Love **
> 
> _ CW: Some violence, allusions to dubcon _

Iris awoke in the night in a cold sweat, her head still splitting, aching like she had hit it on the transom of some low doorframe, rattled in some barfight she shouldn’t have picked. A little moonlight, cool and distant, from the sliver of waxing moon fastened high in the ink-black sky, filtered through the guest bedroom’s windows. Iris closed her eyes and attempted to breath deeply, seven counts in, seven counts out, but it was no use. She wouldn’t sleep again that night – at least, not for a long time. She thought longingly of the tincture she had slipped Nadia just last night, and wished she had brought some for herself. It was the only thing that helped when she got this way, her mind racing, her heart pounding, the pain dull and bone deep... 

She sat up in the bed, realizing she was still dressed in the finery from dinner, now slightly rumpled from sleep. She stretched her back, and absentmindedly reached for Asra’s cards on the bedside table, shuffling them deftly before flipping the top card over. **The Empress, ** a sweet cow’s face, dressed in sumptuous magenta robes, surrounded by succulent, blood-red pomegranates. Femininity, nurturing, sensuality, abundance, nature. 

Iris stood and crossed the room to the open window – though the air was a little chilly and her head still pounded, she relished the magic of the night air. The balcony overlooked a well-manicured courtyard and garden, an abundance of rare and exotic flowers, fantastic topiaries, and sprawling orchards, complete with a large and complicated hedge maze. Out beyond the garden were the edges of a lush and overgrown forest – no doubt, the other edge of the southern forest she and Asra often ventured into in the warmer months to harvest magical ingredients. 

There was just one long balcony for all of the rooms in the guest wing, Iris saw, and she set off to explore, the cool stone soothing under her bare feet after a long day in shoes. At the end of the balcony, wrapping around an imposing red glass atrium that Iris assumed must be the ballroom, was a marble staircase that wound down to the garden, it’s twin mirroring it on the other side of the ballroom. Iris tread lightly and quietly down the stairs, glancing around for guards, but there wasn’t a soul around. 

She found herself at the entrance of the hedge maze, her hair rustling in a shroud of cool breeze. There was a gentle pull, like a string tied around her pinky, nudging her into the tall hedgerows. She closed her eyes and touched the soft brush of the shrubs, and the path was suddenly clear to her. She started off, her pace quickening, as she skillfully navigated the maze, following the map her intuition laid out for her. 

The giggling and gurgling of water grew louder and louder until Iris came upon a clearing, elegant and manicured – the center of the maze, veiled in the graceful arms of an ancient willow. Under the boughs was a massive marble fountain seated with a statue of Capricorn – around the fountain laid a rippling reflecting pool, full of fat, wriggling koi. 

A cool touch around her wrist alarmed Iris – she glanced down and saw sweet Faust wrapping herself around Iris’s wrist. 

“Faust...why are you here?” Iris asked, scooping the familiar up into her arms, scratching her under the chin. 

_Follow!_

Iris raised her eyebrows. “Did Asra leave you to watch over me?” She asked, surprised. 

_Show!_ Faust tugged at Iris’s wrist towards the fountain, her eyes gleaming, tongue flickering. 

Tentatively, Iris walked over to the fountain and leaned over, looking at the surface of the gently undulating water. The burbling of the fountain rippled the reflections of the starscape and the willow above her, but as Iris focused, the shapes of the corporeal world fell away from her eye. Colors without name or form twisted across the water, weaving, forming, arcing, until Iris’s own reflection faded and, in its place, she saw Asra. 

He was also leaning closely towards the water – he quickly splashed his face, then dipped his long fingers into the cool surface, making it ripple across Iris’s vision, and bringing his cupped hands to his lips, drinking deeply. He was so close that Iris could see the rivulets of water running down his temples, his neck, count the droplets nestled in his eyelashes. 

He opened his eyes, and they widened with shock, locking with hers as he wrapped his mind around what he was seeing. “Iris...can you hear me?” he asked, dipping his fingertips into the water as if reaching for her, the ripples distorting his image. 

Iris nodded. His face lit up with joy. 

“Incredible. I can’t believe you found me.” 

Iris raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t do much...Faust led me here.” 

Asra’s eyes twinkled. “I was hesitant to leave her with you, but after your reading...” 

Iris smiled warmly, even as she arched one brow coyly. “You trusted your intuition; I’m glad she’s here. Even if it’s just to spy on me.” Faust stared up at Iris, her little red eyes blinking innocently. Asra shrugged, his eyes glinting impishly. 

“It seems you’re the one spying on me. I felt your eyes on me before I saw you...at least, I felt thirsty eyes drinking me up.” 

Iris stuck her tongue out at him – he leaned back, his eyes full of adoration as he soaked up the sight of her. 

“Where are you, Iris? It looks like the gardens at the palace...” 

“It is.” Iris said quickly, a brow raised curiously, before realizing that a lot had transpired in the last 24 hours. “The guest knocking at the door of the shop last night was the Countess. She invited me to the palace to help her investigate the murder of her husband.” 

Asra’s eyebrows furrowed. “It was Nadia? That’s...an odd request. So much time has gone by...” 

Iris pursed her lips. “I agree, the timing is strange, but the Countess seems to have premonitory dreams. She said she saw me in a dream, that I’ll lead her to him.” Nadia’s words echoed, ominously, in Iris’s ears now: You are the one who will bring him to me. If anyone can help me find him, it is you. 

Asra hummed thoughtfully, his thumb tugging against his lower lip. “And she believes Julian is responsible?” 

Iris chewed her lip, a gentle anxiety gripping her shoulders, her ribs. “She practically said so, but I couldn’t get a good read on her true feelings. I sense there’s more to the story.” She paused, sighing. “If I’m being honest, I’d like to know the truth myself. Helping the Countess may help me recover my own memories.” 

Asra’s eyes softened. “It seems like I left on the day when you needed my guidance the most. But in the end, you didn’t need it all.” 

Iris leaned against her elbow on the railing. “I do wish I could talk to you in person. I think...I think I regained a memory...” 

Asra perked up immediately, his eyes wide with surprise. “A memory? Of what…?” 

Iris’s temple’s throbbed; she couldn’t stop her elegant fingers from flying to her forehead, from pressing gently against the painpoint. This didn’t escape Asra, his brow dark with worry. “I was dining at the palace...” she began, her voice soft and low. “You were with me...and Julian...I was seated next to Nadia, and Lucio...” she gulped, and couldn’t continue. 

Asra’s brows knit together. “How is your head?” 

Iris smiled, a little wanly. “It aches a little, but...” she drew her hand away from her temple, looking at her fingertips as if she might find blood there. “It’s not the worst I’ve ever felt.” 

Asra hummed, leaning forward on his bare elbows, resting his weight on his knees; Iris knew that look, the one that sharpened his romantic features when the Arcana presented him with a particularly obtuse reading, when a spell or potion wasn’t working quite the way he’d hoped. 

Then he snapped back to her, his worried expression melting away as his eyes sparkled, with confidence, with courage. He reached out his hands as if he and Iris weren’t separated by kilometers, and maybe realms. “I think...I think you’re ready.” He said quietly. “You haven’t regained a memory without a horrible migraine in a long time. You’ve likely been ready for a lot longer than I have...” 

Intuitively, Iris reached out to grab his hands, then hesitated. 

“You can do this.” Asra said, his silken voice blooming with certainty. “I promise you, Iris. Just take my hands.”

Iris focused on him, his sweet scent, the warmth of his breath, the way being with him made her feel when they were together, so safe and so strong; she plunged her hands into the chilly water, the dips of impact glowing white and pearly around her wrists. Strong fingers interlaced with hers and pulled her into the fountain, down into a starry void and through the surface of another glassy pool. 

Iris stumbled forward, soaking wet and gasping, into Asra’s strong, chest, his linen shirt smelling of smoke and sand and his richly-scented sweat. He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder and running his fingers through her hair. “You’re astonishing, Iris.” He whispered, and he held her, cooing to her, for a minute or two as she slipped her arms around his waist and soaked in his familiar light. Then he held her out at arm’s length, looking her up and down, taking in the sight of her in her fine clothes from dinner. “Look at you. You’re ravishing.” 

Iris found herself blushing. “This is all the Countess’s doing; she picked out the outfit herself. It’s all very strange...I don’t feel like myself.” 

Asra kissed her forehead. “Nadia will insist as long as you’re at court. Besides...It suits you.” His eyes darkened as his pupils dilated gently, an impish smirk peeling up the corners of his shapely mouth. “I could get used to seeing you dressed like a queen and dripping in jewels.” 

Iris laughed once, more like a gentle snort, her eyebrow raised teasingly; she finally glanced over his shoulder, taking in the sights around her. “Asra, where are we?” She asked, dazzled. 

It was as if she had stepped into a technicolor fever dream, the landscape dotted with deep pools and painted richly with vivid warm colors, pinks and reds, purples, turquoises and oranges. In the distance, there were purple-gray mountains, looming beautifully as they framed a vermillion setting sun, slipping into its sleep. Tall palms whispered in a gentle warm breeze, and the sandy soil was woven with tall green grasses and wildflowers, which seemed to both stretch and shrink in tandem. 

The sky was full of glittering, floating tiny creatures that chirruped and purred, like living dust motes swirling in the sun slanting through a window, and even though the sun was still visible, the sky was littered with multi-colored, twinkling stars. Bird calls, frogs croaking, and the gentle laughter of water all filled Iris’s ears with wild symphony. 

“This...is my personal gate. My oasis.” Asra explained. “It’s a place between realms, our world and the worlds of the Arcana. It doesn’t really exist, in any literal sense of the word, and it doesn’t follow the same rules as our world. If anything, you could say this place is housed entirely in my mind. And yet...you’re here.” He winked at Iris. “Not an easy feat, even for a skilled magician.” 

Iris’s wide-eyed gaze settled into something curious, her brows furrowed, as she ran her fingers over one of the star-shaped, waist-high flowers, the pointed petals like silk under her touch. “Asra...is this where you go? When you leave me?” She finally asked, her voice heavy and low, like a mournful bell cutting through the quiet of morning. “The place I can’t follow you to?”

Asra’s face fell; he lowered his eyes away from her gaze. “Not always.” 

Iris reached back for him, her fingertips dragging softly against the smooth of his cheek. “You come here to strengthen your magic? Asra, I would have understood...if you told me...” 

Asra took her hand in both of his, drawing her fingertips to his lips, kissing her fingers gentle and slow. It was several moments before he answered. “I wish it was that simple, Iris. But there’s more to it than that.” 

Iris felt her brows knit together, her face twist in consternation. “Are you working on something here? Something that I can’t be a part of?” Her head ached dully again.

The corners of Asra’s mouth turned up, soft and sad. “No, Iris.” His voice was quiet as he drew her closer. “I just...need to get away, sometimes. When I was younger...when I felt overwhelmed and alone. So I made this place. It’s comforting to me.” He nuzzled his cheek against her hair. “I’m sorry. I can’t say any more.” 

“Is that how you feel now?” Iris asked, her hands snaking up his back, clawing gently against the damp linen of his shirt. “Overwhelmed? Alone?” 

“No.” Asra said, a little too quickly, a little too forcefully, for Iris to fully believe him. “Especially not with you here, now. Now that I can share it with you.” He took her hands, squeezing them gently between her palms, almost soothingly. When his eyes flitted up to hers, they were mischievous and glinting. “Stay close...you wouldn’t want to get lost in here. Who knows what you’d find.” 

Iris laughed quietly, a wide smile overtaking her soft features, the two sets of dimples that dotted her cheeks whispering out in the sunset light.

Gently, Asra led Iris to the edge of the water of the closest pool, which Iris saw reflected the wild colors of the sky above them, like an undulating watercolor, belying the unfathomable depths below. He took a confident step out onto the water, which held his weight. Iris followed, tentatively – she felt the wetness of the pool’s surface under her bare feet, but didn’t sink down into the water. Asra let out a jubilant peal of laughter, and let go of her hands as he raced to the center of the pool – she ran after him, laughter dropping from her mouth like pearls, the water rippling and splashing around them. 

He stopped when he reached the center, and wheeled around, his arms outstretched – Iris ran into them, and he lifted her up and swung her around, kissing her deeply. 

“There are so many things I want to show you here...I wonder what it has in store for us?” He whispered to her. The pool disappeared and a dripping jungle, covered in lush green foliage, fronds the size of Iris’s entire wingspan, towering trees and palms dripping in vines, sprang up around them, full of the twittering, luminescent motes. 

They swam around the two of them, chattering, and some landed in Iris’s hair, on her nose. Her eyes glittered with amazement, and Asra pressed his lips into her neck. “They seem to like you,” he murmured, kissing the soft skin there gently. 

Iris’s eyes glinted mischievously. “What do they like about me?” She asked, a knowing smile stretching across her lips. She reached up and gracefully extended a finger into the air – several of the motes flocked to her, bumping into each other before landing on her hand. 

Asra indulged her, fluttering his eyelids against the skin of her clavicle as he kissed her. “Maybe they like that they can be themselves around you...” He kissed her again, at the hollow of her breastbone. “Maybe they love the way you think...” He lowered himself gracefully to his knees, kissing the bare skin of Iris’s midriff. “Maybe they can’t take their eyes of you...” He ran his hands up her thighs, across the soaked gauzy material of her pants, that clung, diaphanous, to her legs, until they found the swell of her ass and squeezed gently. “Maybe they love how exquisite you smell...” He nuzzled his face against her mound and breathed deeply, and a heat unfurled in Iris. She reached down and stroked his hair; he looked up at her with his deep, soulful eyes, before bringing her hand to his mouth and wrapping his lips around her mother finger, sucking hungrily, making Iris inhale sharply. 

He shrugged off his long vest and laid it on the jungle’s underbrush, then reached up and grabbed Iris by her hips, gently pulling her down to her knees. She leaned in to kiss him, slipping her tongue into his mouth, which Asra sucked, greedily, greedily. He ran his hands over the rich embroidery of the fabric swathed across her back until he found the fine clasps that held it together – with some fumbling, he gently removed her blouse, exposing the freshly bathed and fragrant skin underneath. 

He walked her backwards until she was laying on her back on his vest, her bare breasts fully exposed to him. She reached up and unfurled his tasseled magenta scarf, so all that remained on his chest was his very low cut shirt. He leaned forward over her, resting his weight on his hands, and Iris traced her hands down the wide swatch of skin over the swell of his pecs, the beginnings of his firm stomach. 

“Before we begin...” Asra murmured, drawing his gaze up to meet Iris’s. “You need to tell me if you start getting a headache. If you regain too many memories too quickly...I don’t know what could happen.” 

Iris raised her eyebrows. “Memories? Of…?” 

Asra blushed. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been here...or that we’ve done this here. If you’ve started to regain memories, who knows what will trigger another.”

Iris laughed, her hands flowing up to his jawline, her fingertips resting on his cheekbones. “I will. I’m fine now.” 

“Good.” He lowered his head down and kissed Iris right where her breasts met, fingertips gently tracing the outline of one soft swell. Iris sighed and rested her head on a tree root, her hands moving up to his hair.

Asra showered her chest with slow, honey-sweet kisses, not letting a single inch of her skin go without his attention, before he trailed southward across her navel. He clutched again at the billowing fabric of her pants, removing them with ease as Iris lifted her hips up to assist. 

“Do you feel more like yourself now?” Asra purred, his eyes roving hungrily over Iris’s nude body. 

Iris grabbed at his shirt and pulled it off of him. “You’re such a pervert.” She murmured, her smile teasing, inviting. Asra didn’t respond, but raised his eyebrows and parted his lips, before running his tongue slowly up and down the creases of her thighs. Iris whimpered quietly and opened her legs a little wider, subconsciously begging Asra to touch her, and Asra, with darkened, lust-tinged eyes, obeyed, reaching down to trace the plush of her labia while kissing her mound, before slipping his brother finger into the giving warmth between her legs. 

Iris arched her back and moaned as the pad of his finger rubbed against her sweetest spot. He swirled her clitoris with a wet thumb and leaned back to drink her pleasure in as she writhed, clutching at the soft flesh of her thigh with his available hand. 

Iris began to pant as she felt a power grow inside her; she squirmed while Asra watched her with hungry eyes, undoing the buttons on his pants with his magic and slipping another finger into her. Iris grabbed the waistband and practically yanked them off to grasp at his shaft and stroke him. 

He bit his lip and increased his pace, which Iris matched with her hands and her hips – it wasn’t long before she arched her back almost violently and cried out loudly, wet gushing over his dripping hand, her spasming sex caressing his crooked fingers. 

“So good, Iris, so beautiful...” He murmured, his voice dark and luscious as she whimpered through her orgasm. “I could watch you forever...”

While she caught her breath and her head stopped spinning, Asra guided her onto her stomach; he spread her knees slightly and leaned over her, so his hips were on top of hers, his legs straddling her ass.

“Is this okay?” He muttered into her ear, taking himself in his hand and pressing his tip against her vulva, her muscles still fluttering with her release. Iris saw a light flash of purple, felt a warmth spreading from him. 

She nodded and raised her hips slightly. Asra purred softly, pressed his lips into her neck tenderly, and thrust gently into her. Iris groaned, the fullness so delicious, so welcome, even she arched her back a little at the stretch, as she looked back at him with her lip between her teeth, her breath growing hot, needy. 

Asra wrapped one arm around her and squeezed one of her breasts, rubbing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He slowly increased the speed and power of his thrusts, each movement making Iris moan at the tightness, all while kissing her neck and shoulders and breathing heavily into her ear, his silken voice throaty and raw with pleasure as they moved together, their sex primal, lustful. 

In this position, it all felt so hot, so close, so tight – after only a few minutes, Asra gasped, “We need to switch, or...”

Iris rolled over onto her back and wrapped her legs around his waist, guiding him back into her; he groaned with pleasure and threw his head back, slowing the speed of his thrusts even as he plunged deeper, deeper, deeper, into her. There was a clap of thunder overhead, which startled Iris, making her gasp – she’d been so absorbed with their lovemaking that she had forgotten where they were, in Asra’s oasis, surrounded by the chaotic euphony of jungle life. 

There was a sound like the whole world sighing, and it began to rain down on them, hard – Asra’s hair was quickly drenched, plastered to his forehead, and rivers of rainwater practically gushed from the sculpted slope of his shoulders, down the valley of his defined chest, dripping off his angular jaw. Iris was acutely aware of the water pooling between her breasts and onto her stomach, running down her neck, dotting her eyelashes. 

Asra slowed, looking up at the sky, then he laughed, loudly, throatily, musically, making Iris’s heart swell with joy. “It’s never rained here before...” He looked down at her, violet eyes full of wonder. “It must be for you...”

Iris pulled him closer with her legs. “Don’t stop, Asra, please...” she begged, guiding him into an open-mouthed, rain-drenched kiss. 

They moved together like this for a few more minutes, wet skin slipping against wet skin, hands dragging through slick hair, the rain beating down on Asra’s back, their tongues dancing, until finally, finally, Asra pulled out of Iris with a shuddering gasp; she grasped his shaft and pumped feverishly. He let out a series of whimpered groans and leaned back, rolling his face up to the sky before he came over her breasts, her belly, her face. 

For a few moments, their slowing breaths panting and desperate and beautiful, Iris relished the satisfying heat of his release on her skin, the sharp but delicate taste of it on her tongue as she licked it off her lips. Then she magicked his cum into oblivion, running her hands up his muscular back, pulling him down to her. “I see now why you called me to you...” 

“But you called me to you.” Asra locked eyes with her, his lips still parted with bliss, breathing heavily. He couldn’t help but smile. “How’s your head?” 

Iris laughed. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m good.” 

Asra pulled a large leaf over them to shelter them from the downpour. He sat at the foot of the tree, and pulled his lover into his arms, her shoulder against his chest, his fingers in her mussed hair, as they watched the rain come down in torrents. 

“Tell me more about the memory you saw.” He said quietly after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “You must have some questions. I’ll answer what I can. I want to….” He paused for a moment, unsure of how to continue. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you the last few days...the conversation we had before I left. I want to be more honest with you. More open. With what I can share.” He sighed quietly. “I have to trust that you can handle it. The Universe has been telling me for some time...”

Iris turned to him, her lips trembling slightly; she leaned in and kissed him, hard. He pulled her closer, cradling her neck in his hand. When she pulled away, she whispered, “All I ever wanted was for you to be honest with me.” Asra nodded, his gaze soft, tender. 

“I know. Let’s start now.” He kissed her again.

In truth, Iris had forgotten about the memory, forgotten that Asra had compelled her here so they could discuss it face-to-face. She recalled it now, and an involuntary shudder swam up her spine.

“I was seated at Nadia’s left, and you at her right, at some...formal dinner. We were all dressed up; it was like we were her...favorites, or something.” 

Asra nodded, resting his chin on the top of Iris’s head. “You were a favorite of hers. And you were my apprentice then, too. We often went to the palace together, especially when I was working there.” 

Iris looked at him. “I knew you back then?”

Asra nodded again, his eyes far away. 

“How long have we known each other?” 

Asra sighed again, voice leaden. “Nine years.” He admitted finally. 

“_Nine_ years?” Iris croaked. “I’m only 24...” 

“Yes.” He kissed her temple, the top of her cheekbone, the tender space under her browbone. “We’ve known each other a long, long time, Iris.” 

Iris turned this over in her heart. She only remembered three years back, and Asra had indicated that they’d known each other before – her first memory was of waking up in their bed, in his arms, after all. But she had known him since she was practically a child…and he, hardly more than that...

“How did we meet?” 

Asra’s eyes grew dark, far-away; he shook his head, ran his fingers soothingly through her hair. The ache of his silence was response enough for Iris. 

“Tell me about Julian, then.” She murmured. “We knew each other...he was trying to make me laugh from across the table.” 

Asra hummed. “You did. You knew him through me.” Thunder rumbled loudly in the distance, and the air started to heat up, taste slightly metallic, ozone and static. “He and I worked together closely at that time.” 

“What was he like?” 

Asra chuckled with something like fondness. “There’s no one like Julian. He could make anyone laugh, blend into any crowd, the stuffiest nobles or the seediest lowlifes. He made friends wherever he went, and he always had the best gossip.” His voice dipped, lower, velvety. “And he worked so hard. He knew the names of all his patients, their spouses, their children. He’d stay up all night researching, then run his clinic all day. He never slept, unless he drank. Which was often, come to think of it. We all drank like the world was ending.” 

“Because it was.” Iris murmured. “You and Julian were friends, then.” 

Asra’s expression twisted, and Iris couldn’t read him; he was blocking her clairvoyance with an inscrutability charm. She scrunched her face up in annoyance.

“I’m sorry, but…it’s complicated.” Asra explained, his voice quiet, small. “More complicated than you’d know. Yes, Julian and I were friends. Then...things happened. A lot of things. It wasn’t healthy for either of us. I had to get away from it.” Asra inhaled slowly and exhaled deeply, ruffling Iris’s hair – though he was still inscrutable, Iris could see the memory was painful for him. “To think he’s come back to Vesuvia after all this time...” 

Iris nuzzled closer to Asra, and thought of what Julian told her last night. Neither of them truly hated the other, but circumstances, it seemed, had ripped them apart. It made Iris’s heart ache; her head pounded with pain even trying to imagine what could have transpired between them to cause this much hurt, this much regret. It couldn’t have been easy to work at the palace during the plague. 

“Lucio. Tell me about Lucio.” She said to Asra. 

The shift in Asra was immediate, frightening; his brow furrowed into a sneer, his features twisted in disgust. “He was a corrupt, spoiled man who used his power to make other people bend to his will, his childish whims. He nearly bankrupted Vesuvia and handed incompetent monsters the keys to the city. He thought only of himself, and cared nothing of anyone else – not his country, not his people, not his bedfellows, not his so-called friends.” 

“Did I know him? He...” Asra looked at her, curiously, and Iris paused, her breath twisting in her lungs. “He...I saw his fantasies of me. They were...” She couldn’t suppress the shudder that gripped her. “They were violent; I was trying to escape. They made me sick.” 

Thunder shook the air, so deafening that Iris thought her heart might stop. A flash of lighting split a nearby tree, setting it on fire, and a searing pain arced through Iris’s temples, drawing a guttural cry from her throat. 

Asra jumped up, pulling Iris with him – he shielded her body from the chaos with his. “You have to go. Now.” She felt him pressing her clothes into her arms. 

“I’ll see you soon. I promise.” He kissed her, and pressed his hand over her eyes; when she opened them, she was in the fountain at the palace, naked, her fine clothing crumpled in her arms, now completely soaked and filthy. 

“Asra, what the fuck...” she muttered, slapping the sopping blouse over her shoulders and fastening the clasps roughly. Faust’s head bobbed from the railing where she was coiled. 

_Asra…?_

Iris scooped the familiar up in her arms, even though she recoiled at Iris’s wet clothes. “Asra is fine...he’s at his gate. Hopefully he can find shelter from that storm.”

_Relieved…_

Iris’s eyelashes fluttered, even as her head twinged; a soft smile spread across her features. “Me too, Faust. I'm glad to know where he is. I'm glad he’s safe.”

With Faust in her arms, Iris snuck back to her room without seeing a single soul who could question her strange appearance. She undressed quickly and draped the soaked clothing over the railing of the balcony before stealing into her room. 

There was a pair of satin pajamas laid out on the chaise – Iris slipped these on and sat on the bed, considering the night’s winding path. She’d regained a memory – one that gave her more questions than answers. Then, Asra had welcomed her into a most private place, taken her on an adventure there. He told her he wanted to be more honest with her. But, at the first sign of danger, he’d panicked…his psyche had made that painfully clear to both of them.

Iris fell back into the bed, her head still aching dully, Faust snuggling up against her chest; before she knew it, dreaming claimed her.

** *** **

Her dreams were strange again.

She was stretched a long, tufted chaise of sumptuous purple, a thick book and a notebook in her lap, but she wasn’t reading; her arm was flung over her eyes, her neck thrown back. “I’m exhausted...” she murmured, turning to Nadia. 

The Countess was sitting at a mahogany writing desk, stacked dizzyingly high with reports, correspondences, her head cradled in her hands. She glanced up at Iris, a pained but conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. “Yes, Iris, I do believe I won’t be getting any more work done this evening.” 

“A headache, Nadi?” Iris asked softly, pursing her lips in concern. 

Nadia laughed, a touch darkly. “Nothing a glass of wine won’t fix.” With a flick of her wrist, a chambermaid melted out of the shadows. “The Gentle Noble today, I think. Two bottles – one for Iris, and one for me.” Iris raised her eyebrows as the maid scurried away, but said nothing. 

As the maid wrenched open one of the double doors, she startled, then stepped aside. “Dr. Julian Devorak and the magician Asra, friends of the court, are here to see you, Milady.” She announced, looking back to Nadia. Eyes widening, the Countess waved them in. 

They struck an almost comical picture, a study of opposites, as they swept in; Asra’s golden skin and broad, strong shoulders accentuated by a long Rostam jacket embroidered with golden thread and blue and purple wildflowers, worn over white pants and a white shirt, unbuttoned down to his sternum; Julian, several centimeters taller than him, wearing a blue-gray double-breasted suit, the lapels and shoulders of the jacket embroidered in gold-edged, peach-bright cherry blossoms, his skin paler than ever, though his nose, cheeks and neck were strewn with late-summer freckles. 

“Nadi, we came as soon as we could...” Julian began, as Asra strode across the room to Iris, sinking down to his knees in front of her – his hands swam to her cheeks, his forehead pressed to hers as their lips grazed in a tender kiss. 

“We heard about the citizen’s quorum.” He murmured to her, barely audible to the others. “Are you all right, my heart?” 

“We’re fine.” Iris muttered. “Though it got a little...dicey.” 

“It was a disaster.” Nadia interjected; her voice wavered slightly as her head sank low, her hands wrapped elegantly around the back of her neck. “How...how did I not know the crops were dying? The western wheat is rotted. The orange groves are diseased. The Marina district is sinking into the canals.” She looked up at them, tears in her eyes. “And Lucio didn’t even show up. He left me to the wolves; the people were ready to riot. If Iris wasn’t there...” 

“You would have done just fine without me.” Iris said soothingly; she let her head drop onto Asra’s shoulder as he situated himself next to her on the chaise, his arms around her waist.

Nadia heaved a sigh. “It matters not. There is little I can do without Lucio, and even less that I can promise the people.” Her voice shrank, small and wan. “I don’t even know where he is.” 

Julian’s eyes narrowed. “He’s passed out in his room. Claimed he was too weak to attend the quorum, but reeked of wine. I thought he’d sent you notice.” 

“Sounds like our Lucy.” Iris muttered blackly.

It was then that the maid returned, accompanied by a young steward; three bottles of wine now, iced in an ornate silver bucket, four long-stemmed glasses, and – Iris smiled warmly – a vielle, gleaming amber wood, a spectacularly long rosined bow. 

Julian hummed knowingly, and reached for the vielle before the steward could even put it down. “How thoughtful, thank you.” He murmured, before turning to Nadia, arched brows framing a raffish grin. “A little music to lighten the mood, perhaps? Iris could sing.” 

Iris smirked, winking playfully at Julian. “I’d rather dance.” 

He barked laughing, plucking at the strings, checking the tuning. “What do you say, Nadi? Dancing?” 

Nadia, with an indulgent smile, waved her hand absentmindedly as she sat back in her chair, pouring four hefty glasses of wine. 

Julian’s grin widened. “Have I ever taught any of you this one line dance I know? Its played nearly every night in taverns across Nevivon. For women, well, anyone really, leaving their bad boyfriends, good-for-nothing husbands.” 

Nadia snorted, and Asra let out a little chuckle. “I think I might know this one.” He murmured.

Iris’s smirk was wicked as she turned to him. “When did you learn a Nivenese line dance?” 

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” Asra nuzzled his nose into Iris’s neck, planting a soft kiss there before standing up. “I spent a little time in Nevivon when I was around your age.” He extended his hand to her, which she took with a waggle of her eyebrows.

Julian began to play, plucked pizzicato notes syncopated with a luscious, rollicking melody; his musicianship was undeniable, fluid and playful. He and Asra showed Iris the steps, two forward, two back, a little spin, a little kick, handclaps, foot stomps – Nadia handed her a glass of wine, her hips shimmying to the music, sliding as easily into the dance as rain into the sea. When Iris stumbled over the spin, Nadia caught her, her mouth wide with teasing laughter; when Asra misstepped, bumping into Julian, the larger man checked him cheekily with his hip, winking roguishly, never missing a beat. 

Then Julian began to sing in his native Nivenese, his voice rich, if hesitant. The lyrics sounded like nothing else that Iris had ever heard, the language buttery and guttural in a way that Vesuvian was not: “_Možete imati moju prošlost, nikad je neću vratiti..._” It was a call-and-response song, and Asra sang the responses, in Nivenese that was halting but sweet: “_Ti dani prolaze..._” 

It wasn’t long before they were all singing, all dancing in tandem, wine spilling from their glasses, laughter spilling from their mouths as they moved. Iris forgot about her exhaustion, the creeping trepidation snaking its fingers up her spine; instead, she focused on Nadia’s smile, her familiar perfume, her arm around her shoulder when they spun together – she focused on the way Julian’s barking laughter filled the room, the teasing way he swatted at Asra with his bow, the curious raise of his eyebrows when he watched Iris dance – she focused on the liquid, enthralling way Asra moved, as if his body was made for dance, the feeling of his his hand around her waist, slipping lower and lower, the warm hunger that radiated from him when their eyes met – 

The door to Nadia’s bedroom swung open without announcement, the wood cracking carelessly into the stone wall; a ferocious shadow loomed in the doorframe, lumbered forward on uneven steps. Count Lucio’s eye makeup was smeared, his crimsoned eyes puffy, his normally slick hair unkempt, billowing white blouse creased with drunken sleep. His thin lips stretched into an unabashed sneer as he took in the frozen scene before him. 

“Having a little party without me, Noddy?” he slurred, lurching forward; he reeked of alcohol and sweat, his blood-and-ice eyes unfocused – it was his horrible alchemical arm, the gauntlets mercifully removed, that he reached for Nadia with. 

She reeled back out of his grasp, her eyes wide, and Iris instinctually stepped in front of her, power humming in her veins, sparking at her fingertips. “Get out, Lucy.” She spat, her voice low and simmering. “How dare you show up here after what you pulled today.”

He snorted, his bored, boring gaze gliding across her face, her bare shoulders, the ruched, tiered white dress that cascaded over her hips. “Giving orders now, pretty fool?” He towered over her, an amused smile splitting his narrow features. “Noddy may give you much leeway, but...” He moved too fast – Iris couldn’t have stopped him if she tried – his ice-cold metal fingers snaked under her jaw, clutching at her cheeks, wrenching her chin up painfully. “...you’d do well to remember your place.” 

Movement, hands – Asra’s, strong, gentle, on her shoulders, pulling her away and into the safety of his arms; she could feel his magic sizzling from him, turning the air in the room electric with anger as he glowered at Lucio. Julian’s hand was on Lucio’s human arm, pulling him back, his voice wavering as he entreated the Count: “Come on, you’re drunk as a cork, let’s get you back to your chambers, sleep it off...” 

Lucio scoffed and yanked his arm out of Julian’s grip, his palm opening, fingers outstretched; Julian and Nadia both blanched visibly. “I grow very tired of my subjects telling me what to do.” He growled. “Leave us, the three of you. I should like a moment alone with –” His smile grew lecherous, animal. “–my gorgeous wife.” 

“Absolutely not.” Iris hissed. “Now get out before I call the guard.” 

Lucio wheeled on her, face twisted into a petulant scowl, and both Asra and Iris raised their hands, protective spells thrumming in their palms, their intertwined magic swirling together, scorching, menacing in their anger – but it was a gentle sound, half hum, half clearing of the throat, from Nadia that stopped them all. 

“Iris.” Nadia turned her gaze to the young magician, her garnet-dark eyes soft and inscrutable; she lifted her wineglass to her lips and drained it with one long gulp. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Leave us.” She lifted the corners of her mouth to a small, even smile that did not reach her eyes. “All will be well. I shall call for you in the morning.” 

Iris opened her mouth to protest, to fight, but another hand fell on her shoulder, the skin cool and smooth, the touch careful, hesitant, insistent. “Come on.” Julian murmured, into Asra’s ear, into Iris’s. “Pick your battles.” 

Iris bit her lip, her chest shaking with anger, with tears that she wouldn’t, couldn’t let fall, not here, not even with Asra’s strong arm still around her waist, his scent in her nose, his lips on her cheek, not with Julian’s hand on her bare shoulder, the soothing comfort of his cooing voice as swept the two of them out of the room, through the ornately carved double doors of Nadia’s chambers. 

Lucio laughed, cold, dark, triumphant. “Perhaps next time, the three of you could join us, if you’d be so amenable.” He teased, his nasal voice oily, dripping. Iris glanced back over her shoulder, saw the back of a massive gilded hand stroking Nadia’s cheek, her gazed trained to the floor, her body stiff as Lucio leaned over her, his other hand, his human hand, snaking down, under, the waistband of his brown leather pants. 

Then the heavy doors slammed closed, leaving the three of them shaking, shaking, with anger, with disgust, with defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: Pathetic fallacy, motherfucjers_
> 
> _Also, if my Croatian's wrong af, blame google translate. _
> 
> _See y'all in the Emperor._


	6. The Emperor, Part 1: I'll Jump Over the Wall and I'll Wait for You There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New prologue? Never heard of her. 
> 
> ** Iron & Wine - Rabbit Will Run **
> 
> _ CW: Some blood _

When Iris awoke the next morning, her head was still splitting, and the harsh rapping at the door didn’t help. She glanced out the windows – aurora green and powder pink snaked through the horizon, but there was no sun. It was just before dawn. 

“Are you awake, Iris?” Portia called, before opening the door quietly, tentatively. 

“I am now, Portia,” Iris grumbled, not unkindly. She had no idea when she returned from Asra’s oasis last night, but she was sure she had hardly slept; her feverish dreams danced before her eyes, shaky, blurry, formless as Vesuvia’s winter mists between her fingers. 

Portia quietly placed a washbasin of warm water on Iris’s bedside table, along with a few fresh towels – Iris could smell their heat from the bed. 

The handmaiden hung an outfit over a small hook on the three-paneled changing screen in the corner of the room. It was a beautiful garment, a snowy white jumpsuit with slits up the outside seam of the legs that practically came to the hips. There was also a gauzy lavender blouse with puffy sleeves and a complicated indigo obi belt, embroidered with swirling stitches made to mimic the movements of water. 

Portia clucked her tongue. “I can help you dress this morning. These belts can be tricky.” 

Iris blushed a little, suddenly feeling timid, but she rose from the bed. She was thankful she decided to wear the silk pajamas, even though she was going to be naked in a moment. 

The redhead beckoned her over to the screen, and Iris obliged, tentative; Portia deftly removed her shirt and slipped the gauzy top over her shoulders, making quick work of the row of pearls in the back that served as fasteners. She indicated for Iris to step out of her pants, which Iris did, very aware of her nudity, but Portia was unflappable, pulling the jumpsuit up over her hips and shoulders, quickly doing the practically invisible fasteners. 

“You’re very good at this,” Iris said, half impressed. Portia smiled. 

“I’ve been helping to dress the Countess the last three months. You get good at all these tricky buttons pretty quickly.” Portia unfurled the obi in her arms – it was nearly her height. “Hold still, please.” 

“Just three months? It seems like you’re the one running the place.” Iris asked. “How long have you been at the palace, Portia?” 

The other woman snorted. “Two years. There wasn’t anyone really in charge when I first arrived. I was just one of the chambermaids then, tasked with reading to the Countess while she was in her deep sleep, feeding her, bathing her. I was there when she awoke, you know.” Portia wrapped the thick, richly patterned belt around Iris’s waist twice – it practically spanned from ribcage down to her navel. “She was in that sleep so long she hardly knew up from down, poor thing.” 

Iris nodded, her brows furrowed in concentration. Rumors had swirled lately that the Countess had finally returned – the word was that she had been in Prakra, her childhood home, searching for a new husband. Iris had long suspected that this was not true, but she never expected that the Countess had been cloistered away – the palace had certainly done a good job of keeping it under wraps. 

“I should mention, Milady and the Chamber would like to keep that under wraps, so let’s keep it between us for now.” Portia caught her eye, winked. “Oh, also, please be careful if you find yourself out on the grounds. It seems like we might have had an intruder in the garden last night. The bloodhounds were having a field day this morning, sniffing around the fountain and yapping up a storm – I hope they didn’t wake you.” Iris averted her gaze, fought back the slight blush that threatened her cheeks; if Portia noticed, she did not let on. 

She wrapped a long, braided silk cord around Iris’s waist and tugged hard before knotting the cord over her belt, securing it expertly. Iris shifted her waist to and fro – she had expected the thick fabric to feel bulky and cumbersome, but it was almost delicate against her skin. 

Portia produced a pair of flat, round-toed mules, embroidered all over with miniscule iris flowers, which the magician put on reluctantly – she still was not yet comfortable enough here to go barefoot, but she loathed covering her feet. 

“Breakfast will be served shortly. I’ll give you a moment to freshen up. Oh, and Iris – the Countess has requested you bring your cards with you.” With a playful, conspiratorial smile, she slipped out the door, singing absentmindedly in that same careful soprano: _“The rabbit will run, and the wind takes the bird where it blows...”_

Iris carefully splashed her face with the water in the basin and applied another cream to her face, this one smelling of earthy Nipponese tea and aloe vera. She attempted to slick down her cowlick with a little of the soft beeswax in a faceted box shaped like honeycomb, but it was no use. Her eyes lingered over the vanity, and fell on the small black velvet case of jewels from yesterday. It called to her, tenderly.

She opened it, and found what was whispering her name – it was a long oblong pendant, a smooth, speckled sodalite gemstone the size of Iris’s thumb set in gold. She traced the stone with one finger; its warmth surprised her, and it enveloped her. 

_She and Nadia were in a massive, luxurious bedroom, the vaulted ceiling draped with beautiful purple tapestries and slinky gauze. Nadia was lounging in her bed, her long body draped elegantly across the covers, a long-stemmed glass of fragrant and ethereal white wine adroitly upright in her long, gold-dipped fingers; Iris was leaning back against the curved headboard, her legs curled under her, carefully, slowly strumming a kalakula. _

_“Fool in the night...awake in the night...” Iris sang quietly, her voice low and soft, strange, uncertain. She paused her a moment, wetting her lips with her tongue as her brow furrowed in thought._

_Nadia’s eyes flicked open lazily as she skillfully, slowly, swirled the wine in her glass. “Cover me with your long feathers...when I die...” she sang; her voice was not as pure as Iris’s, nor as sweet, but her words were sure. _

_Iris’s eyes lit up bright, and she smiled, though she could feel her throat constrict, a sour tightness, a deep sadness. “When I die, circle me in your long feathers, feathers, feathers…” _

_Nadia turned to her, her smile quiet, her eyes swimming, drunken; it was then that the door opened, one of the twins peeking her head through. “It’s nearly time for dinner, Milady. Shall I help you dress?” _

_Nadia shook her head, a dopey grin spreading like warm honey across her lips. “I’ll have Iris help me, Primula. Thank you.” The handmaiden cast her eyes down and bowed deeply, shutting the door firmly behind her._

_Iris carefully set the kalakula down, but not before scribbling something in the handbound purple leather workbook on the bedside table. “What would you like to wear to dinner tonight, Nadi?” She asked, striding over to Nadia’s considerable wardrobe, sun-bleached wood ornately carved with moons and constellations; she carefully lifted out a fluttering chiffon dress painted to look as if it was sewn together from butterfly wings. “I’m fond of this one, myself.”_

_“Your eye is impeccable as ever, Iris.” Nadia’s eyes twinkled. “That reminds me...” She got up from the bed and crossed to her vanity, where a small embroidered jewel box sat. She picked it up and beckoned Iris over to her. _

_Nadia opened the box – it was the same sodalite pendant, the gold polished and gleaming. Iris gasped. _

_“Nadi...how did you...”_

_“Asra told me you’re fond of sodalite.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Please do accept it as a token of my appreciation. I have so valued your company of late. You have been an endearing companion, and a trustworthy friend.” _

_Iris nodded, her mouth still agape. Nadia took the pendant out of the case and fastened it expertly around Iris’s neck, smoothing her long ruffled collar. It sat perfectly on her breastbone, framing the low cut of her white dress, its romantic, gauzy sleeves. Iris reached out and touched it, felt the soothing energy of the stone, the harmony and intuition it fostered._

_“Perfect.” Nadia smiled. “It pleases me to spoil you, Iris.”_

Iris came back to as a shudder of cold rippled up her back. She fastened the necklace around her neck; her fingers lingered on it as she grabbed her satchel and Asra’s deck, then opened the door. Portia took one look at her, licked her finger and smoothed Iris’s cowlick, expertly shaping her hair.

Iris turned the memory over in her head as she and Portia wound their way through the labyrinthine palace. Iris and Nadia had been quite friendly before, it seemed, when Asra had worked in the palace. But she was in Nadia’s chambers...it was all so familiar and intimate, the ease with which they sang together, Iris on Nadia’s bed, touching her clothes in her wardrobe, helping her dress... Nadia had called her a friend, even. Had she worked at the palace, also? Why didn’t Asra tell her so? She chewed her lip in thought as Portia threw the doors open and announced, “The magician Iris, apprentice to the magician Asra.” 

Nadia was sitting at the head of the table, dressed in an enormous seafoam green robe over a flowing white strapless dress. She cradled her head in her hands, her eyes screwed shut in pain. She cast one precursory glance at Iris before lowering her head back down. 

“Iris, I do hope you slept well. I, for one, had an exceptionally miserable night.” 

Iris sat besides her, and reached out to touch her forearm, but thought better of it. “The tincture didn’t work?” 

“No...well, it did put me to sleep, which was a boon, but my dreams were especially vivid.” Nadia said, looking up at Iris. 

“Mine, too.” Iris said softly, though she still could not recall them, only emotions shifting through her like sand in a desert, anger to joy to unease to disappointment. 

Nadia tutted. “I am sorry to hear that, Iris.” Her hooded eyes darted to Portia, who was hovering beside the magician, her hands tented in waiting.

“Coffee, Milady? Iris?” 

“Ugh, please.” Nadia said, squinting her eyes shut. Iris met Portia’s eyes and nodded once; the young woman scurried away, returning shortly with an elegant golden samovar. She quickly fixed the Countess her coffee, with a half spoonful of sugar, before pouring one for Iris, giving her a questioning look. Iris took the coffee from her and doctored it herself, adding a lick of cream and a touch of the honey on the table. 

Nadia looked Iris up and down as the magician fixed her coffee, admiring her own handiwork. “You are a vision in white, Iris. It is as if you were always meant to wear it. And that pendant is an inspired choice.” For the first time that morning, she smiled. “I’m glad to see you are adapting quickly to palace life.” 

Iris’s face prickled with heat, as Portia returned from the kitchen with two large plates, placing a fragrant, delicate egg tart in front of each of them. Iris’s stomach growled, making Nadia titter into her napkin. 

While they tucked in, the chamberlain appeared at Nadia’s elbow, murmuring the day’s news and schedule into Nadia’s ear, while the Countess nodded solemnly. Iris’s thoughts wandered back to the memory. How close had she been to Nadia? How close had Asra been to Nadia, to introduce them on such an intimate level? Iris had even called her Nadi. And then, there was Julian...

“Iris.” Nadia’s voice cut through her reverie. The chamberlain was retreating now. “I understand that you brought your cards. Would you read for me this morning?”

Asra’s cards practically appeared in Iris’s hands as she reached into her satchel; the deck hummed in her hand as she shuffled and scooted her chair even closer to Nadia. She held the deck out, and Nadia touched it with one long finger, reverently – this small ritual felt oddly familiar, practiced. 

Iris flipped the top card deftly, and smarted. It was **Justice, reversed,** the scales in the wild boar’s hands toppling. 

“Oh...” she breathed, unsure. The card spoke to her, loudly, but she hesitated to relay it to the Countess.

“What is it?” Nadia’s eyes bored into Iris, her imperious stare roving over her face. Iris felt a rush of clarity; it was no use obscuring the truth from her. 

“You seek retribution for crimes committed against you, but Justice demands you seek the truth. What is the price for the actions you seek? Will the innocent come to harm? Justice sees all, and the light is coming to reclaim what the darkness stole. You would do well to seek that light, lest karma come calling for you.” 

The room dissolved into silence as Iris jolted out of her tunnel vision; her eyes flew up to meet the Countess’s – they were steady, searching the young magician’s face for clues. Out of the corner of her eye, Iris could see Portia, her hand clasped over her heart. 

Nadia’s face did not betray her emotions, and Iris found, with a shock, that even when she probed the Countess with her clairvoyance, she was blocked. Nadia lifted the card from the table with a neutral expression. 

“What an ominous fortune.” Her eyes traced the thick, art nouveau lines of the boar’s eyes and snout. She stood abruptly, and the servants scrambled to regain their composure. 

“Iris, do accompany me for a stroll. There is something I would like to show you.” She held her palm out for Iris, who hesitated, but then took her hand, letting the Countess lift her from her seat. 

With her hand still grasped around Iris’s, Nadia swept out of the dining room, Iris following her dutifully, Portia scrambling behind them. Nadia lead the two through several corridors until they stopped suddenly at two ornately carved wooden panels, each at least four times the height of the women who stood before them. 

Iris recognized the carving as symbols of the Emperor and the Empress Arcana – a towering oak, and a stouter, unfurling elm, the leaves inlaid with emeralds, the textures of the tree trunks glinting with mother-of-pearl and several types of luxurious wood. 

“Portia…” Nadia murmured. “If you would be so kind...” 

Portia produced from her bosom a heavy set of keys, and located a key inlaid with several small gemstones. Iris watched in astonishment as Portia lifted the key to the door, and the gemstones swam from the key to facets of the door where the gemstones had been removed. The roots from the trees pulled up from the floor, and with a groan, the doors swung open. Nadia ushered both of them inside. 

They found themselves in an absolutely immense library, shelves and shelves of books as far as the eye could see. Iris realized, with an astonished gasp, that the room as magicked to hold much more than its corporeal parameters could contain. There were sitting areas with lavish, overstuffed chairs and chaises, rows and rows of desks, shelves that stretched to the top of the vaulted ceilings. A beautiful stained glass window cast a reverent light all over the vast room, making the place seem like a sacred shrine, peaceful and quiet. 

“Do you read, Iris?” Nadia asked, her hands trailing over the covers of books as she strode across the room to the long line of desks under the massive stained glass window. 

Iris nodded. “It would be hard for me to study magic without being able to read, Countess.” 

Nadia tempered her surprise. “I suppose this is true. Who taught you?” 

Iris answered without thinking. “My parents. They were professors in at the University of Albyon. They taught me how to read and speak in a few languages – Alba, Prakran, Vesuvian. It was my aunt who taught me how to read spellbooks. She was a magician, too; she owned the Indigo Child before passing it on to me. And, of course, Asra taught me how to study magic, as well as practice it.” It was not so much a memory, but knowledge that returned to Iris. Her aunt’s face swam in front of her, her kind, seablue eyes framed with large glasses and the crinkle of crow’s feet. 

“Very impressive, Iris. It’s no wonder you are so skilled at such a tender age.” Nadia paused in front of a messy desk, completely covered in textbooks, notebooks, hastily made notes and drawings. “Do you know, then, why Doctor Devorak was called to the palace?” 

Iris’s eyes narrowed. “He was one of the many who were summoned to find a cure for the plague, correct?” 

Nadia’s eyes danced. “Indeed, Iris. Your mentor was called for the same reason.” Her eyes trailed to the window; Iris followed her gaze, finding her eyes falling on the ancient willow over the fountain. “We provided everything that might be needed to each of the minds who gathered here, in hopes of finding a cure. This desk belonged to the good doctor.” Her hands fell on the stack of books in the corner, lazily tracing the text of the book’s cover. 

Iris approached the desk cautiously. She’d known who it belonged to before Nadia told her – she could feel Julian’s hazy presence, sense his lidded eyes on her. She gently touched the smooth wood of the desk’s surface, and for a moment, it felt like the cool of his skin. 

“The guard has reviewed the contents of the desk laboriously, but none of them have your… intuition. I hope you will have better luck than them.” Nadia smiled slightly, before turning to Portia. 

“Please be sure to let Iris in to the library whenever she wishes – whether that is to examine the Doctor’s desk, or otherwise.” Portia nodded quickly, almost too quickly, before falling in line behind the Countess. The panels swung shut as both women exited the library. 

Iris sat slowly at Julian’s desk, taking in his aura, his lingering scent on his things, the heady cling of his musk and the tang of sea. There was a small scroll on the very corner of the desk, placed almost precariously, tied with red string. Carefully, Iris unfurled it, her eyes scanning the powdery paper. 

It was certainly Julian’s handwriting – the sloping script, hurried, practically illegible. She could hardly even make out the salutation: “Dear sister...” 

Carefully, Iris stowed the scroll into her satchel; she would decipher it later. Her hands fell onto a large leather folio, which fell open as she picked it up. It was stuffed to the brim with medical illustrations, some in the style of Julian’s rough sketch from yesterday morning, others much, much more detailed, annotated carefully, measurements and equations and footnotes carefully documented. A small swell of affection rose and broke in Iris’s heart – she remembered what Asra said, about Julian’s dedication to his craft, his work. 

The door opened again with a loud groan, and Iris quickly stuffed the folio into her bag as well. Portia appeared at her shoulder, scanning the desk cautiously. “I know you’ve just gotten started in here, but Milady has summoned you again. I’ll be happy to let you in whenever you like – you need only ask.” Portia gave Iris a coy wink, but Iris was quick to notice the pain in her eyes. She followed Portia out of the library and down the long, cavernous main hall to the grand balcony that opened onto the courtyard. 

Nadia was surveying the gardens, her back to Iris, her hands wound elegantly behind her. Iris noticed two of the guards waiting in the garden, but they were dressed curiously – one appeared to wear a rabbit mask and a suit of downy fur, while the other, much taller guard was dressed as a gangly fawn. 

Nadia rounded on Iris and Portia, a smile curling on her face. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Iris, but I’ve been thinking on the fortune you gave me this morning.” 

Iris paused, her eyes wary. 

“Do not worry, Iris.” Nadia continued. “I found it very wise and honest, but it reminded me of the importance of certainty.” She approached Iris, her expression peculiar. “I know I have a reputation for disliking fortune tellers, but I would say this isn’t entirely true – I dislike those who use the guise of magic to say whatever they want...or whatever they think I will want to hear.” Her eyes twinkled. “My heart tells me the Arcana compelled you this morning, but I want to make absolutely sure of your skill.” 

Iris wrinkled her nose, her heart racing. This did not bode well. 

“I’ve devised a little test of your true abilities. I understand that possessions tether themselves to their owners, and that may be all we have to draw the doctor to us. I have given something of yours to the guards below – it is your task to retrieve it by dawn tomorrow.” 

Iris cocked her head. “What could they have of mine?” 

An impish smile spun across Nadia’s lovely face. “Your **Justice** card, of course.” 

A jolt of panic ran through Iris – instinctively, she reached for Asra’s deck, and knew something was dreadfully wrong. With a missing card, the deck was unbalanced, spiraling; it practically wept without its missing brother. Nadia had picked up the card at breakfast to examine it and never returned it; Iris cursed her own carelessness. 

“The doctor is hiding from us in a city of thousands upon thousands, a city where gossip spreads faster than fire, certainly faster than we ever could, making our task all the more difficult.” Nadia continued. “We must know exactly where the doctor is before we strike if we ever hope to succeed. Both of the guards below will be evading you all day, and they are some of our fastest runners. If you wish to find the man with your **Justice** card, you will have to use your magic.” Nadia’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Just as you would need to to find the good doctor.” 

“Should you succeed, I will not doubt your talents again. Should you fail, you will be free to go – no harm, no foul. Remember – dawn tomorrow. Portia and I will be at the town square.” Nadia smiled shamelessly now. “Happy hunting, Iris.” 

At this, a piercing whistle rang across the grounds – Portia. The guards scrambled and disappeared swiftly into the gardens. Iris’s gaze darted between Nadia and Portia, scouring each of them darkly, before she wrenched off her delicate shoes and took off sprinting after the guards, her satchel swinging against her back. 

“Good luck!” Portia yelled as Iris clambered down the stairs in her bare feet. As soon as her toes touched the grass, she knew exactly which guard to pursue – she could practically hear their footfalls like a heartbeat, the **Justice** card calling to her loudly, desperately. Skidding wildly on the slick grass, Iris followed the lithe deer guard into the hedge maze. 

It was quickly clear that Iris was outmatched; the guard bounded ahead of her on powerful, practiced legs. They whipped through the maze, zigging and zagging through the archways of foliage, Iris just barely keeping pace behind him, her breath huffing wildly. She easily lost sight of him in the maze – were it not for her intuition, she would have quickly lost the deer guard completely. 

Suddenly, a tall lemonstone wall reared up in her sight, and Iris skidded to a halt, her hands slamming painfully into the wall to protect her head from the impact. It must have spanned the perimeter of the grounds – around her shovels and other tools were strewn, a mossy but narrow path beaten between the hedges and the wall. And, Iris saw, a rusted metal gate, hardly used, barely the full size of her body. 

She heard the call of the **Justice** card as it moved further and further away from her, but something inside her hummed much more insistently; she peered through the gate and found dense vines and the detritus of neglect, but, further out, a swelling valley, wind ruffling the long grass like a girl tossing her flaxen hair over her shoulder. Without a second thought, Iris opened the gate – it practically swung open at the lightest touch, and after clawing aside the vines, Iris was descending a rough, rocky hillside path into the valley. 

Iris’s heart trilled as she raced down the hillside. It was a rush to just leave – Iris realized, as the sweet highnoon wind rippled the tall grass around her, lifting the scent of baked earth to her nostrils, that she was smarting at Nadia’s disrespect. Nadia didn’t remember her – that much was certain. But had she treated Iris like a plaything back then, too – ? 

The tall grass licked at Iris’s elbows as she pushed her way across the valley; soon, the city was sprawled out before her, and the grass gave way to baked, rose-colored clay, scrub grass twisted and gnarled under years of footsteps and sun. The sights and sounds of Vesuvia quickly sprung up around her, and Iris found herself in the Southside of town, with its lopsided, towering wooden structures, apartments and shops, living-room sized taverns, backroom gambling halls, and seedy brothels, built up hastily over the massive lemonstone aqueducts that ferried the city’s water from the forest oasis that the palace was built around. 

Iris took a deep breath in for seven counts, and exhaled. She was unsteady, and she felt vulnerable. Her clothes stood out – no one in this part of the city wore finery like this, and without a complete Tarot deck, she felt nude. Asra’s voice silky voice whispered to her: “Savor your breath, lead with your heart, and be present.” She gathered her breath in her, and cast a light obscurity charm – just enough to bend the light around her a little, make the eye slip over her, so she would not have to draw her athame on any pickpockets. 

Without paying much attention, Iris’s feet took her to her familiar haunts while she considered what to do next. Her intuition had guided her off the palace grounds, but now she felt unmoored. Had she truly just meant to run away from the palace – after deciding that she would help Nadia, even if for her own selfish curiosity? Or was there something in these streets that would bring her closer to the truth? 

She found herself standing at the door of the Rowdy Raven, her eyes tracing the long staircase up to the second floor tavern. Iris smirked to herself – she knew that the answer she sought wasn’t at the bottom of a flagon, but she realized with a sharp swallow that she was parched from running. Her hand closed around the knob when the door flew open, smashing her in the nose. 

“Motherfucker...” Iris cursed, clutching the bridge of her nose with both hands. She stumbled backwards and her ankle caught on a divoted plank, making the joint pop out of its socket painfully and sending her tumbling to the ground. 

For a brief moment, Iris was stunned, pain shooting through her nose, her ankle, her backside. She felt blood running down her cupid’s bow into her mouth, and dusty mud and grime seeping into her once-pristine white jumpsuit. She withered with mortification; she knew she was a sight. 

“Oh, dear...that was quite a tumble...are you all right?” A gentle but husky tenor asked, a voice that Iris recognized instantly. Her eyes shot open, and Julian was leaning over her, his gloved hand extended to her. 

“Iris...” his eyes widened with surprise. “I...I didn’t recognize you. You look...”

Iris took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet, his other hand instinctively landing on the small of her back to help steady her as she kept her weight off her rolled ankle. Her heart fluttered. “I know, I look ridiculous.”

“I was going to say regal.” A smile crept across his face. “But it’s a little early to be stumbling around in the alleys, don’t you think?”

Iris snorted, forgetting her nose – blood rushed into her throat, making her cough. “It’s never too early.” She sputtered, her hand rushing up to her face in attempt to staunch the bleeding.

Julian laughed once, loudly, an echoing bark. “That was my line. Here, can you walk on that ankle? It looked like you tweaked it pretty hard.”

Iris took a tentative step, but stumbled, falling against Julian’s chest. His hands flew up to her arms, just below the swell of flesh under her shoulders, steadying her, a deep blush flooding his cheeks. Her face was buried against the soft linen of his white shirt – as she pulled away, it was stained with her blood. 

“I’m sorry...this is disgusting...” Iris said. 

Julian chuckled. “Trust me, I’ve seen much, much worse. Let’s get you inside.” He practically carried Iris through the door and up the stairs to the Raven.

They had barely passed through the threshold of the tavern when another pair of familiar hands descended on Iris, pulling her chin this way and that. “Damn, girl, I’d hate t’see de other guy.” Aster said, clucking her tongue sympathetically. “I’ll get you some rags.” 

“Don’t...I just need a place to sit. I’ll patch myself up.” Iris insisted. Aster, with an unimpressed raise of her thin brows, nodded to the back booth; her eyes flitted for a moment between Iris and Julian, and a knowing, gap-toothed smile spread across her face. She winked at Iris before swiftly bustling back to the bar. 

Julian carefully lifted Iris onto the wooden bench and settled into the seat across from her. Aster flounced back over, carrying a flagon of almost-black beer and a goblet of barberry mead, which she placed in front of Julian and Iris, respectively. She then procured the promised rags, which Iris took gratefully, wiping her hands clean. 

“Thank you, Aster,” Julian muttered, and she smiled cheekily again, placing a hand on this shoulder.

“Be careful of dis one, Iris. I already have abou’ a hundre’ stories of him, and he’s only been here tree nights.” 

Julian laughed. “And you owe me about a hundred pentacles, Aster. I didn’t take a shot of snail mucin liquor for fun.” 

Aster winked. “Oh, I owe you far more’n dat, Juli honey, and I’m workin’ on it – dese are on de house.” 

Iris watched them curiously while she mended her broken nose with soft pulses of golden light, guiding the cartilage back into place and redirecting the blood back into her body, which quelled the swelling. 

She checked her handiwork with a long sniff – her nostrils flooded with the stale but delicious air of the Raven, beer-soaked wood, cannabis, bread, incense and, mercifully, no blood.

“May I?” Julian reached across the narrow table and grasped her nose gingerly, surveying her work with a doctor’s skillful gaze as Aster hustled away, compelled by other patrons. “Just like Asra,” he murmured, impressed. “He could fix just about any injury. Annoying, really.”

“How so?” Iris asked, turning her attention to her ankle. It was already much stronger – she rolled her bare foot in its socket with only a little pain. A few minutes of sitting would do the trick, no magic needed. 

“Nobody wants to go to the doctor who will heal a laceration with 20 stitches and a month’s time. They want the three-minute fix. Of course, most healers aren’t as skilled as Asra.” Julian smirked. “Ever see a magician fuck up a femur break? It’s not pretty.” 

Iris raised her eyebrows. “The same would be true for a doctor’s skill, though, wouldn’t it? You made pretty quick work of my sprain the other night. It’s already healed.” 

She extended her arm to him; he took hold of the wrist gently, turning it over, expertly pushing the joints of her thumbs and wrist this way and that. Iris could see from his blank features that he was not surprised.

“I...it wasn’t a terrible sprain. And that poultice is quite...powerful.” He stammered slightly. He let go of her wrist, then brought his flagon to his lips, taking a long sip. Iris knit her brow. His gaze met hers over the stein, and she felt a wave of knowing wash over her – he was lying.

“Julian...” She began, then paused. “You should know. I’m a clairvoyant.” 

Julian’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and he set his flagon down with an ungraceful clank of metal on wood. “What does that mean? You can see the future?” 

“No...” Iris bit her lip, considering how best to explain. “I can’t see the future, and I can’t read minds, as if they were a book – it’s more like I see things for what they are, with clear eyes. It’s not as simple as knowing what the truth is and isn’t, but I can sense someone’s true motives, or whether they’re keeping something from me or deceiving me. I understand how people feel, truly feel, often before they understand it themselves. Sometimes, I can piece together the full truth in those things. Most times, I can’t.”

She let this revelation hang over them for a moment, settling like a fine dust. “I should have told you earlier, but there wasn’t a lot of time.” 

Julian listened attentively, his brows knitted, then turned his gaze to the dark ichor in his flagon. “So you know if I’m lying to you?” His eyes darted up to hers, almost roguishly. “But you can’t read my mind to know the truth?” 

Iris raised her eyebrows, taking a long sip of her mead. “Sometimes...but not always. Some folks are easier to read than others. I tell people it’s best to just be honest with me.” 

He leaned back in the booth and threw his arm over the back of the bench – his loose shirt slid further open, revealing a wide stretch of toned muscles, smooth skin, and dark, dense hair. Iris’s heart pounded in her chest. 

“This explains why you like the question game so much.” His eyes sparkled, his eyebrows raised. Iris lifted her goblet to her lips for another drink, not breaking their eye contact, letting the sweet and sour mead wash over her tongue. “Seems unfair...how will I know if you’re being honest with me?”

“I was honest in telling you. You could have never known.” Iris rebutted. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“But you don’t have to trust me.” Julian’s mouth was smiling, but his eye betrayed a glint of vexation. 

“No.” Iris smiled. “I’ll try to, but you have to earn it.” With a start, she remembered what had brought her there in the first place. She rummaged in her bag and produced the folio of drawings and the scroll, holding them out to Julian. “These are yours. Tell me more about them.” He surveyed them carefully before taking them.

“These are from my desk...” His brows furrowed deeper. 

“...At the palace, yes.” Iris said. His eye roved over her again, and suddenly, quick as a cat, he reached behind her ear to pluck a cluster of burrs from her hair.

“The word about town was that you were bound for the palace. Did you not finding it to your liking?” His eyes glittered again. “The rusted gate behind the hedge maze, down the hill to the Southside valley.” He turned the burrs over between his fingers, an oily secretion coating the leather of his gloves. “It’s lousy with black burdock.” Iris bristled a little, and Julian laughed. “I know that route well. I used it many a night to slip away unnoticed. The palace can be...suffocating.” His eyes were kind now, empathetic, even as Iris sensed the distant pain that hid behind them. 

Delicately, he unrolled the scroll, and the smile melted from his face as he concentrated, squinting in the candlelight. “Oof. This light is not for reading.” His one-eyed gaze slid across the page slowly as he mouthed some of the passages silently to himself. His expressive brows knit as he read, and at one point, he heaved a long, burdened sigh. When he reached the bottom of the page, he closed his eyes for a long time, tracing a very small circle in the space between his brows with his sister finger.

He rolled the scroll back up and handed it, surprisingly, back to Iris. He turned his attentions to the folio, but Iris’s intuition spoke to her. “Tell me about your sister.” 

Julian startled, the papers in his hand rustling. “You...you can read that?” 

“Julian, I can read. You wrote me a note.” 

“No, I...you can read that? That handwriting?” He looked like he wanted to dissolve into the bench, never to be seen again. 

“Some of it...tell me about your sister.” 

Julian’s eyes grew wistful, distant. “I don’t know much about her, actually. I haven’t seen her since she was, oh, this tall.” His graceful hand hovered at the edge of the table. “We wrote a little while I traveled, but after...after, uh…we lost contact a few years ago. I don’t even know what she looks like.”

Iris’s heart panged, and she reached across the table to wrap her hand around Julian’s. He blushed, and wrenched his hand away, on the pretense of grabbing his stein. He drained it with a few gulps, and stood, heading for the bar. “Another round?” He asked nonchalantly as he walked away. 

Iris drank more of her mead, observing him as he approached Dara, Aster’s stout, barrel-armed husband, at the bar. They chatted amicably, and an easy smile slid across Julian’s face as he cracked a joke that left Dara in stitches, the raucous sound cutting through the steady rumble of the noisy tavern. 

Despite being a fugitive and actively wanted by the Vesuvian government, Julian took no pains to hide himself. As he walked back to their booth with their second round in his hands, he stopped to observe two old crones playing a card game. One of the women reached up and tapped his cheek fondly with her palm as he looked over her shoulder; he pointed to a single card in her hand with an unburdened finger. The woman played it, laughing maniacally – there were groans from the betting spectators, one who shook their fist at him and yelled a spectacularly colorful obscenity, another who threw their drink at Julian, which he dodged easily. 

Iris smirked as he slid back into the seat, setting the second goblet of mead in front of Iris. “You’re not too concerned about being seen, are you?” Iris asked quietly, draining her first drink and reaching for her second.

At this, Julian chortled. “You’re a regular here...you know these folks aren’t too keen on obliging the whims of the palace, if they aren’t laying low themselves.” He raised his glass to her, and she to him – they toasted each other silently, both taking a long drink. 

Iris raised her eyebrow. “Not even for a mountain of pentacles?” 

A bark of laughter escaped from Julian’s lips this time. “So they have a bounty on me? Maybe I should turn myself in...”

Iris leaned forward on her elbows, surveying him, swirling the mead in her cup. “What about the market, though? You were there yesterday, just out in the open.”

At this, Julian blushed slightly. “Are...are you sure? I just have one of those faces, y’know, people say they see me all the time…” 

Iris cocked one eyebrow. “No, you don’t. You’re easily one of the most recognizable people in the city. I saw y–” 

Iris was interrupted by the shrill squawking of a bird – Malak, Dara’s raven, swooped through the windows with a piercing shriek. He beat his wings against the bells strung from beams above that criss-crossed the crude wood ceiling. The tavern erupted into chaos, but too late – the door burst open below them and the clamor of metal and leather on wood echoed through the crowded bar as the guards mounted the stairs. 

Instincts firing, nerves sizzling with power, Iris leaned forward over the table and placed both her hands on Julian’s chest, finding his cool, bare skin. A feeling like being bathed in egg yolks encircled them, thick, viscous, oily, and then dissipated quickly. 

“Iris, what...” Julian stammered, but she shushed him quietly. 

“They won’t see us, but they could still hear us.” She practically mouthed. As the rest of the patrons attempted to scatter, the guards burst forth over the threshold, flanking a sylphlike, angular-faced young man no more than Iris’s age, a long ombré braid draped lazily across his chest. It was Consul Valerius. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: Fuxj me upppp, Sam Beam._
> 
> _Have you been enjoying the quasi-faithfulness to the original prologue? Great, because this is our stop. Choo choo, kids._
> 
> _See y’all in Emperor 2._


	7. The Emperor, Part 2: A Firecracker, Baby, With Something To Prove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Sylvan Esso - Die Young **
> 
> _ CW: brief images of domestic violence _

Iris and Julian watched, wide-eyed, shock-still, as Valerius’s steel-cold eyes swept over the empty Raven, rough wooden stools upended, flagons abandoned, games of cards and darts and crystal dominoes unfinished. His lip lifted into an almost imperceptible sneer of disgust as he turned towards the bar, where Aster was standing, her arms crossed, her eyebrows raised, her dark eyes sparkling, playful and dangerous. 

“How can I help ya, Consul?” She asked wryly. “You ain’t gonna find any Highnoon Rendezvous here, and I can’t imagine you drinkin’ a Salty Bitters. At least...” Her smile curled, mocking. “Not de kind we’re servin’.” 

Consul Valerius glowered, but pointedly ignored Aster, even as he looked straight at her: “Dara Zornitsa and Aster Slick, I have a warrant to search your establishment for the fugitive Doctor Julian Devorak.”

“Aye.” Dara made a jerking motion with his chin and squared his shoulders, looking ferocious with his scarred face and Malak shrieking on his shoulder. “Don’t ignore the lady, good Consul. Didn’t your brown-nosin’ mama teach you better?” 

Valerius’s even demeanor dropped; his sneer stretched, his gaze burned dagger-sharp. “My mother, Death embrace her, would have me bent over her knee if she caught me being disrespectful to a lady; fortunately for me, I don’t see one here, just a feral she-cat turned ale-wench.” 

Dara bucked forward in a feint, brows knitting, nostrils flaring, and the Consul jumped back, startled, hand flying to the hilt of the shamshir at his hip – but Aster held up her hand, throwing Dara a sharp look, a warning. 

She paused a moment as she ran her hand over her buzzed, bald head; and then smiled her winning, gapped-tooth grin, laced with quiet venom. “I can assure you, dear Consul, we’ve nothin' to hide. We’re just humble innkeepers, simply tryin’ ta make a livin’.” 

“I will be the judge of that.” Valerius sneered, and snapped his fingers. The guards swarmed, storming the place, practically smashing tables and chairs as they upended them, tearing down the strings of bells, crushing bottles behind the bar. 

Julian grabbed Iris’s wrists and hauled her up, scooping her bodily into his arms. He bounded, long-legged, over the side of the booth and down the back staircase down to the kitchen, taking the steps three at time. With a soft grunt, he shouldered open the back door into a narrow, trash-filled alley that spilled out into the aqueducts. 

“Can you run?” He asked Iris, his eyes meeting hers, fierce with focus. She nodded brusquely, and he planted her firmly on her feet, never letting go of her hand. They took off, sprinting away from the canals, the shouts from the Raven still ricocheting through winding, narrow alleys. 

The walkway opened onto one of the main streets of the Southside, a ramshackle, dodgy market roiling with activity, even now, mid-afternoon. With the obscurity charm Iris cast, the two of them blended easily into the crowd – no one so much as looked in their direction as they slid past patrons arguing over the price of bruised fruit and pawned heirlooms. Iris noticed, a delicate flush creeping into her cheeks, that Julian was still grasping her hand tightly, their fingers interwoven easily, his thumb tenderly, absently, circling the knuckle of her mother finger. 

He was leading, weaving expertly through the sea of bodies across the street and down about three city blocks, constantly scanning for more guards. At once, they both saw the glint of silver out of the corner of their eyes – guards were surrounding the market. 

“Fuck.” Julian cursed quietly, and turned around, placing a hand on the small of Iris’s back, guiding her to another shadowed alley. This one led to a winding residential street, blotted with blighted houses and abandoned buildings, no doubt left from the plague. Julian broke into a run, pulling Iris with him as they sprinted down the smooth cobblestones. Suddenly, her intuition fired; she saw a gate, framing a gloomy, shadowy scene, like a painting – a long-forgotten garden, wild and overgrown. She tugged Julian back, and he wheeled on her, one eye wide; the door opened with a little spark of her magic, and she pulled him inside, the gate closing silently behind them. 

In the loom of the buildings around them, it almost seemed to be night in the garden; long, cool shadows were cast over everything, like a scene awash in dark watercolors. It must have been years and years since this garden was tended; the flowerbeds were choked with weeds, and creeping ivy had sunk its spindly fingers into everything – the wooden fences, the arched trellises, the reticulated stones paving the way to a small fountain filled with nothing but dirt and dust. The awning that covered the entire garden was covered in dense, chaotic foliage dotted with deadly blue blooms. 

“Look at this place...” Julian breathed, his eyes sparkling; he was still holding her hand. Behind them, there was a stampede of footfalls – Julian pulled Iris to him and away from the gate, pressing his back into the wall, out of sight, wrapping his arms tightly around her as the guard clamored past. 

Iris’s heart pounded, and she felt a familiar swell, a heat, in her belly as she breathed in Julian’s musk, felt the cool skin, the soft hair, of his chest against her cheek. They stayed still a few moments, Julian’s neck craned towards the gate, his breath bated, his heart pounding with adrenaline in Iris’s ear, as they waited until the coast was clear. Then, he loosened his grip slightly on her. 

“That was some quick thinking, Iris – we might be in chains now if you hadn’t pulled us in here. Did you know of this place?” He asked quietly. Iris shook her head, and turned to survey the garden. 

“No...but it’s beautiful...I wonder what happened here.” She stepped tentatively out of his arms and under the ivy-cracked trellises towards the fountain, her fingers flitting over the old stone. Across from the fountain, there was a statue of a fearsome warrior clad in bearskin and chainmail, broadsword in hand as he crushed the head of a massive, misshapen beast, one arm ripped away, under his boot. Iris surveyed it thoughtfully, and a long hand gripped her shoulder gently. The weight of Julian’s arm over her back felt protective, tender. 

“He’s handsome.” Iris said, finally, her gaze sliding from the statue to Julian’s profile. Her breath caught in her throat – he was so striking, beautiful, from this angle, the sharp Roman incline of his nose, his long neck, the angular, chiseled chin, the way the straps of his eyepatch creased his unruly auburn hair. 

“He looks dangerous, no?” He said, his eye brow arching. He turned to Iris, his lips parted slightly. 

“The warrior, or the beast?” Iris asked with a smirk. 

Julian’s eye dimmed, and he turned away from her, surveying the statue again. “Does it matter?”

Iris’s heart clenched. “I don’t mind a bit of a danger.” She cooed, the answer coming to her easily; the adrenaline flooding through her made her feel bold, invincible. Julian raised both eyebrows now, a smirk flitting across his features. 

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Trouble seems to follow you like a faithful dog; I can empathize.” He paused, his lips parting with thought. “But do you always know what you’re getting into?” 

Iris met his gaze with a quiet smile. “Does anyone? That’s what makes it dangerous, doesn’t it? The not knowing?” 

Julian didn’t respond, but reached up behind Iris’s ear, plucking something out of the foliage above them. One of the blooms, a beautiful star-shaped flower, so bright and vivid blue that its petals seemed to glow in the gloom. Julian offered it to her, but when she reached to take it, he pulled it back, twirling it in his fingers. 

“Do you know what this is?” The smirk on his face snaked into a full, devilish grin, his lips parted, showing his even teeth. 

The flower looked painfully familiar to Iris, but she couldn’t name it or place it. She shook her head. 

“Deadly starstrand.” Julian said. “The enzyme that gives it its otherworldly blue can be distilled into a powerful poison. You could kill an infant in its crib with just one drop on the skin.” His eyes sparkled. “Yet, so beautiful, so innocent looking...like most deadly things in this world.” His eyes softened, his gaze falling across Iris’s features. He offered the flower to her again with a flourish. “Do you still want it?” 

Without hesitation, Iris took the flower from his hand. “Just because something might be dangerous in one form doesn’t mean its always dangerous – some plant’s leaves are poisonous, but the roots heal.” She murmured, and fixed the flower in her short hair, behind her ear. “If the poison has to be distilled, it can’t hurt me like this.” 

The soft glow of blue illuminated her fair skin, made her indigo eyes deepen and glimmer, cut soft, sculpting shadows across her high cheekbones. She met Julian’s gaze, eyes dancing. “How do I look?” She asked, her voice soft and low.

“Beautiful.” He murmured. He reached down to brush a curl of hair out of her eyes. Iris grabbed his jaw with both hands and pulled him to her, kissing him deeply. 

Julian’s eyes widened with surprise, and he stiffened slightly – then, with a wanton groan that snaked down Iris’s spine, he melted in her arms, kissing her back hungrily. His hands snaked across her waist to the small of her back and the place between her shoulder blades, pulling her closer to him. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him into the ivy-pocked stone wall, leaning heavily into him, pressing their bodies together, never breaking their kiss. 

They parted their lips now, their tongues meeting and roving into the heat of each other’s mouths – Iris could taste the black coffee and chocolate of the stout he’d been drinking just moments before. She nipped Julian’s bottom lip before pulling away, her fingers tugging at the tasseled drawstrings of his gray pants. A slight flush crept across Julian’s face as he inhaled with anticipation, leaning his head back against the wall.

“I love it when a woman takes the lead,” he murmured breathily, and Iris responded by kissing him down the neck, each kiss more rough and needful, until she reached the place where his neck and his shoulders met. She bit him hard and began to suck, earning her a tremulous moan as Julian ran his hand up her neck to her hair. 

She unloosed the knot that held up his pants, and they fell to his knees, held in place by his tall leather boots. Iris wrapped her hand around his half-hard cock and began to pump slowly – with mischievous eyes, she looked up through her long lashes at Julian and sank heavily to her knees in front of him. She pressed her lips into his scrotum before sucking one of his testicles into her mouth, swirling it carefully, playfully on her tongue. 

Julian grunted and slid down the wall a little, gently grabbing a handful of Iris’s hair and watching her with parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes. She released the one and took the other into her mouth, this time sucking gently in time with the rhythm of her hand. Her tongue found the seam and she licked it slowly, then swirled her tongue around the base of his cock, fully erect and throbbing now. 

“By the Gods,” he moaned, closing his eyes. Iris smirked, and ran her tongue all the way up his length before taking his entire cock into her mouth. Julian arched his back and moaned her name, his hands falling from her hair to her shoulders, gripping them firmly. 

She wrapped her hand around the base of his shaft, now wet with her saliva, and moved her hands and lips together while sucking him down. He couldn’t help but pump his hips slightly into her while she focused on him – she moaned a little with each tiny thrust, and the vibrations rumbled pleasurably through his pelvis. After many minutes of this, Iris noticed that Julian’s hands were searching her back for the fasteners to her jumpsuit; she pulled away from him with a last, lazy lick, and guided his hands to the seam under her armpit where the zipper was housed. 

He located it quickly and pulled, the slinky fabric of the jumpsuit spilling apart – Iris gracefully pulled her head and shoulders out of the top, revealing the see-through blouse underneath. Julian knelt down and made to lean over her, but, with an impish smile crossing her face, she shook her head and pushed him back into the wall so he was seated with his long legs sprawled out in front of him. 

She kicked off the rest of the jumpsuit and climbed into his lap, her bare legs straddling his naked hips, and guided his hands to her belt. He undid it with ease, surprising Iris, and tossed it aside with a flourish. His hands grazed her torso up to the swell of her breasts, her erect nipples fully visible through the sheer gauze. He traced the outline of her areolas with his thumbs through the soft, slinky fabric and pressed his lips into hers – she could feel his thick erection twitch beneath her. She raised her hips a little and grasped him. 

“I want you.” She moaned into his mouth; she was already so wet, so hot, just from having his cock in her mouth. In response, he lifted her shirt, and, his eyes flitting up to hers, he leaned forward and planted a long, lingering kiss on one of her nipples. He reached into the pocket of his pants, procuring a barrier, which Iris took from him and slipped onto his hardness. She hovered her hips over his and placed her hands on his shoulders for stability. 

“Say that you want me.” She whispered to him, rolling her hips slightly so the tip of his cock traced the soft, swollen folds of her labia. 

He leaned his head back against the wall and opened his one eye, his lips parted, gaze burning hot with desire. “By the Gods, do I want you,” he groaned, his hands trailing down from her breasts to her hips. “Please, Iris….please, let me – let me have you...I want to feel you, I want to be inside you, please, please, darling, _draga_...”

Satisfied, smirking, she lowered herself onto him, his length splitting through her wet heat; they gasped in unison, Julian throwing his head back, exposing his bobbing Adam’s apple. Iris slowly gyrated her hips against him, digging her fingernails into his shoulders as if he were the only thing tethering her to this world. One of his gloved hands traced up her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him – the cool leather on her bare skin made her shiver. 

They moved together like this, kissing, touching each other, making quiet noises in harmony, forgetting entirely where they were or why. It was only when a metal clank rang through the garden that they were jarred back to reality. They froze, their eyes wide and mouths gaping. Iris swiftly covered Julian’s mouth with her hand and her head swiveled to the arch next to them as a single guard walked through it, his heavy armor clinking ominously. 

“Is anyone here? Show yourselves, in the name of her lordship, the Countess Nadia!” He called into the quiet garden. His gaze roved over the fountain, across the statue’s face, until it fell on the wall which Julian and Iris were making love against. As they held their breath, the guard’s eyes slid across them, unseeing; he turned his back to them, surveying the garden in awe for a moment, before making his exit. “Clear!” He called to his captain; the gate banged shut behind him. 

Iris and Julian remained frozen for another moment as they listened to the sounds of the guard marching away from the street, the market. Once silence settled over them, Iris sighed heavily, her head bobbing down to her chest, releasing a burden. Julian let out a great peal of laughter, which echoed through the secret garden; laughter simmered up in Iris, too, and for a moment, they laughed together. 

He kissed her lips softly, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her even closer. “That was exhilarating…but we should make tracks. I’d rather not tempt the Universe twice today.” She nodded, a smile playing across her face. Suddenly, a warmth spread through her back and chest like a fever, and the ground was pulled out from under her as she was plunged backwards into a memory. 

_Julian’s hand was on the small of Iris’s back as he lead her to the door of a greenhouse on the palace grounds. He was dressed in a stylish and expensive-looking suit of deep, warm gray pinstripes, a sumptuous maroon velvet vest, and a white silk shirt – in his other hand was a finely-wrought mask of black feathers and braided gold threads. The masquerade…? Iris thought, her brow furrowing._

_She glanced down at herself – she was wearing a heavily embroidered snow-blue gown with black lace edging; it opened in the front, halfway down to her knees, revealing her shapely legs and a pair of elegant black lace heels that she teetered in on the uneven turf of the gardens. She saw a small, satisfied smile stretching across Julian’s lips as he steadied her – Iris realized, warmth surging through her heart, that it pleased him to be useful to her, even in this distant memory. She touched her hair; it was long, slicked back into a ponytail at the back of her head. On the top of her head was a mask, raised jauntily off her eyes – it was covered in white feathers, the eyes black. A swan._

_Julian opened the greenhouse door and led Iris inside, his fingers slowly, sultrily tracing the fine boning and lace on her bodice. “I can’t believe you’ve never been in here.” He whispered to her, his warm breath whirling on her ear, making her skin ripple with wanting. It was dark and shadowy inside the greenhouse, and it took Iris’s eyes a moment to adjust, but slowly, slowly, a faint bluish light washed over them; the ceiling was covered in starstrand blooms. They cast their ethereal light over everything, pulsing slightly in the power of the full moon. _

_“Oh, Ilya,” she breathed, her eyes awash in wonder. “How…?” _

_“Lucio loves them.” He pressed his lips into her bare neck and took in her smell with a deep, lingering breath. _

_Iris snorted, but her hands found Julian’s wild hair, smoothing it slowly, sensuously. “Of course he does. Invasive species, stupid deadly, expensive to cultivate.”_

_Julian suddenly pulled Iris into his arms, their chests pressed together. His pupils were blown wide with desire – he wasn’t wearing an eyepatch, his right eye healthy and storm-dark, his intense gaze boring into her. His pale skin seemed to glow in the dim, chilly light of the starstrands. “I don’t want to talk about him.” He muttered, and kissed Iris just under her ear, making her heart flutter, warmth unfurl inside of her as she sighed against his skin. He lifted her up and carried her easily to the glass wall, pressing his weight into her hips as their kiss grew passionate, his tongue swirling into hers. _

_Iris wrapped her legs around his and pulled him even closer, planting her feet on the back of his thighs and digging her high heels into the taut muscle. He pulled back from the kiss and whimpered strangely against her lips, pain and pleasure mingled. A knowing smile crossed Iris’s face. “What is it you want, Ilya?” She asked breathily in his ear. “Use your pretty words.”_

_“You...” He gasped, a deep flush rising across the bridge of his nose, his long fingers digging into the sweet give of her thighs. “I want you, moj cvijet, moj smrtonosni starstrand...” _

_Her answer was to dig her heels even deeper into his flesh, a knowing smile slinking across her soft, open mouth, angled towards his; he quivered and moaned tremulously, biting his lip so hard that Iris thought he would break the skin. _

_Suddenly, there was a noise at the greenhouse door. Without thinking, Iris breathed in quickly and exhaled heavily; magic rushed from her fingertips over their skin, and the same thickness, the same oiliness from before coated the two of them. Julian hardly noticed – his gaze was trained on the greenhouse door, watching it warily._

_It burst open – Lucio was dragging a very drunk Nadia by her wrists into the greenhouse. She was wearing a bright blue gown embroidered all over with silver and blue threads, uncanny reflection of the glow cast by the starstrands above them. _

_“Look, Noddy. I grew these for you. They’re native to Prakra.” Lucio’s voice was like that of a spoiled child, guilelessly seeking her attentions, her praise. _

_Nadia’s head rolled on her neck as she looked up, as if she couldn’t hold up her own weight. “Starster… srtarstand...” she slurred. “Lucy, you idiot...they’re not….they’re not native to Prarkra… they were brought there centuries ago by southern conquerors...”_

_Lucio’s eyes blazed, and his lips twisted into a snarl; Iris saw the silhouette of his right hand hover and then strike Nadia across the face, the sickening sound echoing through the small greenhouse. Iris dug her fingernails into Julian’s shoulders, a fierce anger swelling inside of her; he shushed her, almost inaudibly, his lips grazing her ear soothingly, but his body was tense, coiled like a spring – he was seething, too. _

_“You dumb, uppity bitch...” Lucio sneered, as Nadia fell to her knees, clutching her face, tears springing into her eyes. He spat on the ground in front of her. “One of these days, I’ll have your ungrateful head on a pike.” With a sweep of his fur cape, he left the greenhouse, the screen door slamming feebly behind him. _

“Iris.” Julian’s voice brought Iris back to the present, and her temples throbbed painfully, making her vision blur slightly. He was still inside of her, her seated on his lap, his hand running soothingly, groundingly up and down the slope of her spine. “You zoned out there for a moment, darling. Are you okay?” 

“Yes, I...I’m fine.” She scrambled off of him, trying not to meet his eyes. They stood, Julian deftly adjusting his pants before scooping up Iris’s clothing. He held out her jumpsuit for her; she stepped into it wobbily and pulled the top over her blouse, doing up the tiny zipper with her magic so she didn’t have fumble with her shaking hands. 

She felt Julian’s watchful eye on her, but he said nothing – he handed the obi belt to her; this, too, she magicked onto her body, wrapping it around her waist twice before tying it closed. It was not as graceful nor as comfortable as Portia’s skillful work, but it would do for now. 

He surveyed her up and down, a softness in his eyes – he reached up and adjusted the starstand in her hair, then took her hand. “Let’s go.” He murmured, and they exited the garden through another gate that led them to the front of the abandoned home. 

“Should we try going back to the Raven?” Iris asked, looking up and down the unfamiliar street. Her head throbbed again, and she resisted the urge cradle her forehead in her hands; the last thing she wanted was to alarm Julian. He shook his head. 

“We should avoid it for a few hours, at least – there will be a few guards circling the place like vultures, if not Valerius himself. I think I know just the place where we can kill some time.” He interlocked his fingers with hers and lead her up the street away from the market. 

A few blocks away, they came across a large, tall building, painted all over with peeling frescoes depicting dramatic romance scenes: balcony serenades, clandestine kisses, fiery tangos. Julian took Iris back around the alley to a massive iron door. 

“Iris, can you remove the spell? We need these fine folks to recognize us.” He turned back to her, his eye meeting hers. “We can trust them.”

Iris urged her to body relax as a wave of comfort washed over her; she reached up and touched his cheek, and the protection slid off of them like water off their backs. Using this much magic made her head throb again, and she pressed her lips together to keep from crying out. 

Julian knocked on the iron door seven times, the pattern random but practiced. A slot opened in the door, and a pair of clear blue eyes appeared – once they fell upon Julian’s face, they widened, and the slot shut firmly. The door flew open, revealing an intensely freckled, ginger-haired man with a broad chest, strong shoulders. 

“Ilya, it’s you...would you like me to get Marek or Sela?” 

“That’s not necessary – but can we lay low in the box for a while?” Julian asked, stepping over the threshold. The redhead nodded brusquely, scanning the alleyway behind them. 

“The guards were skulking around earlier. I’m guessing they were looking for you.” For the first time, his eyes fell on Iris, and the color rose to her cheeks as his gaze roved over her dirty jumpsuit, her sloppily tied belt, the spots of blood down her front. 

“She’s with me, Red.” Julian quipped, his grip tightening around her hand. Without another word, he led her down the narrow hallway through another door, where a lantern with magical, undulating red flames was lit. 

Iris was shocked at what they found inside – the bustling backstage of an enormous theater, stocked to the brim with antique furniture, elaborate costumes, fantastical props. Actors and actresses in elegant costumes and full makeup hustled to their marks, the air awash with soft murmuring, vocal warm-ups, last-minute lines run in hushed voices. Some of the cast recognized Julian, squeezing his shoulder or planting a quick kiss on his cheek as he wove his way nimbly through the pre-show bustle, but most ignored the two of them. 

He stopped suddenly at an unimposing ladder at the end of the hallway and turned to Iris, gesturing her upwards. She grabbed the highest wrung she could reach, and, thankful for her jumpsuit for the first time today, she clambered up, Julian’s steady hand on the small of her back as he mounted the ladder behind her. 

The ladder lead to a box situated just above the stage, practically papered the posters of previous shows, where she found a man and a woman seated, both middle-aged and ridiculously handsome, both dressed completely in black. The woman wore her hair in a dark navy blue undercut that she kept swept up into a high, messy bun, and there were kind wrinkles around her eyes and her mouth. The man was older than her, his leathery hands betraying his age – his bald head and face were completely smooth, like a buddha’s. They gaped at Iris until Julian’s head appeared behind her. 

“Ilya!” The man cried, standing quickly. Iris scrambled to solid ground, and Julian stood behind her, his arms outstretched. 

“Marek.” They embraced for a long moment, before Julian turned to her, gesturing her forwards. “Iris, this is Marek, an old friend and the owner of this fine establishment. Marek, this is Iris, my...the, uh...” Julian fumbled for a moment, lips parted as his brain stumbled over itself. 

With a soft, patient chuckle, Iris stepped forward, offering her hand. “...the proprietor of the Indigo Child in the Market district. Charms, potions, herbs. Tarot readings. The like.” 

“A witch, then.” Marek said, his eyes glittering, dipping down to kiss her knuckles. “A bewitching name for a bewitching woman.” He straightened and threw his arm around Julian’s shoulders. “Ilya, I heard you were back in town – how delightful of you to stumble in here. What can we do for the two of you?” 

“We just need a place to lay low for a few hours. Can we catch the show?” Julian winked at him.

The seated woman laughed. “You’ll get a real kick out of this one, Ilya.” She scooted over a chair and patted the seat next to her, locking eyes with Iris. Iris sat, and Julian took the seat next to her, Marek the seat next to him. “It’s almost curtain. You’re just in time.” 

She leaned over and whispered into Iris’s ear. “I’m Sela, the choreographer; it’s lovely to meet you. Ilya was one of our most popular actors years ago, before his work completely stole him away. Are you a performer, Iris?”

Iris laughed, and shook her head. “Absolutely not.” 

Sela smiled kindly and patted Iris’s knee. “Well, I hope you enjoy the show.” 

The lights dimmed as if on cue, and the packed audience below them fell silent. The small quintet in the pit began playing a lovely, lilting waltz as the curtains rose – the stage was completely packed with actors in elaborate dresses and suits, their faces obscured with exaggerated animal masks, waltzing together in tight, chaste circles. 

Two very short figures, a man and a woman, appeared on the top of the stage’s staircase, their loud sonorous voices booming over the stage. “It is year 18 of Lucio’s reign, and the night of his 38th birthday. The entire city has come out in their finest to celebrate him and his just, prosperous reign.” This hung, pregnant and warped, in the air as the music paused; then, the entire cast burst out laughing, the audience a chorus, their riotous response echoing through the theater. 

The music changed swiftly to something more rough and raucous, and the actors onstage broke into a lively quadrille, wineglasses and flagons appearing in some of their hands – some even ripped off parts of their costumes to reveal much more lewd dress, breasts bared or hemlines raised practically to their hips. 

Iris’s brow furrowed as her head twinged. Even three years after his death, she knew Count Lucio was not popular, especially in the poorer and seedier parts of town. Yet, with word circulating that the palace was on the hunt for the Count’s murderer, Iris wondered how wise it was to mock the Count’s death like this. He hadn’t even appeared on stage, and it was obvious that this play wasn’t going to be flattering to him. 

Her mind drifted, absentmindedly, to Nadia – what she would think if she knew Iris was here right now rather than searching for the **Justice** card. She reached into her bag to touch Asra’s deck – it still felt to her as if it was weeping.

Out of the controlled chaos onstage, two actors stepped forward: one very tall, handsome, and wearing a truly atrocious curly auburn wig; the other older, silver-haired, dressed in multi-colored magician’s robes embroidered all over with nonsense runes. 

“Magician, tell me.” The actor playing Julian said loudly. “What do the cards have in store for me tonight?” 

The old magician procured a deck from his long sleeve, and drew the top card with a ridiculous flourish. Iris wondered, with a moment of brutal clarity, the dull ache between her eyes resurging, if he was meant to be Asra. “The **ace of swords** – the uncovering of truth, quick decisions.” His voice boomed, fearsome. The image of the card appeared magically on a screen in the back of the stage, practically centimeters from where the four of them were seated. “You will have to make a choice, good Doctor. Let the truth be your guide.” 

The second card now. “**Justice**! Beware to those who’ve eluded her too long. The light is coming to take back what the darkness stole.” The Justice card appeared on the screen in front of her, and she realized with an uncomfortable squirm that the actor’s words were almost exactly her words to Nadia this morning. 

The magician drew the final card. “**The Chariot**! A victory, not just for you, but for all, is on the horizon. Do not hesitate, good Doctor! Your actions tonight will change the course of history!” The audience and the cast behind him applauded, and the actor playing Julian squared his shoulders, smirking, fairly beaming under the attention. 

Iris shook her head, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, and turned to Julian. With a jolt, she realized he was white as a sheet, eye wide – horrified, mortified. She grabbed his hand and rubbed his knuckles; he turned to her, as if remembering for the first time she was with him, and gave her a wan smile. The Julian character now broke into a half-baked soliloquy, taking shots of a dark liquor as they were handed to him while talking of the charge of rulers to protect the weak and innocent. “We all clapped for the Count while our fingers were cold...”

Iris zoned out, the lines from the scene below her flowing in and out of her, not settling. Just moments ago, she was reliving a memory of her and Julian at a masquerade...was it this one, where Lucio was murdered? It was possible...Iris had no way of knowing. At the very least, her suspicions were confirmed; she glanced at Julian out of the corner of her eye – he was still ashen, his knuckles buried in his lips, his knee bouncing with frenetic energy, but even so, even so, she felt a stirring for him, a fondness, a desperate need to soothe him, to see him smile again. She and Julian had been lovers once – of this, Iris was sure. Their intimacy had been more than physical, moving towards the romantic, the loving. Iris wondered, with another twinge of pain, where Asra was in that memory. 

She now had three memories of her past at the palace, and Lucio had appeared in two of them, tyrannical, childish, and terrifying, filling what should have been perfectly happy memories with his toxic, suffocating presence. Iris knew that he spent an exorbitant amount of the city’s coffers on parties, alcohol, and entertainment, letting the poorer parts of the city starve and fall into disrepair. He had a notorious reputation for being a womanizer and a maneater, doing whatever it took to bed his flavor of the week, including manipulation, coercion, blackmail, and rape. 

She certainly couldn’t blame any of the people here for celebrating a horrible man’s death, but it still turned her stomach how grotesquely they celebrated it. She clutched Julian’s hand tighter, and he squeezed it back in kind. 

The play wore on for hours, detailing the antics of a progressively drunker and bolder Julian, including a particularly lurid love scene with a spectacular brunette; it was clear that a great deal of artistic liberty was taken with the rumors that swirled around Lucio’s death. Finally, the scene below them changed from the grand ballroom to an intimate bedroom, replete with a four-poster bed decked in red satin sheets. In it laid a sickly blonde man, entering into middle age, silver streaking his temples, a look of wild boredom painted on his narrow, waxen features. 

“Everyone is celebrating me, and I’m to wait here _**alone**_ in my room? On _**my**_ birthday? What do you expect me to do all night? Count my riches? Commission another delusionally flattering self-portrait? Masturbate?!” His features contorted into a comical wail, and the audience roared with laughter. 

“That’s fantastic, it sounds just like him.” Julian muttered, a small smile creeping across his lips for the first time during the show. 

Play-Julian bounded into the room, his face cloaked in a long, beaked mask, not unlike the one Iris saw in her memory, and the audience burst into applause. 

“Doctor Devorak, here to cure me of my boredom!” A slick smile twisted across play-Lucio’s face, and he licked his lips exaggeratedly. 

The actor playing Julian drew a long sword from his belt and, with one ridiculous leap, jumped into the four-poster bed, kneeling over the prone Count, the saber raised above him. “I’m here to take revenge – for Vesuvia!” He yelled melodramatically. The members of the chorus, now all wearing animal masks with red eyes, weeping blood, stood ominously, stonily, on the periphery of the stage - a shiver gripped Iris's spine. 

The Lucio character scoffed. “You, kill me? What are you going to do, smother me with your thighs?” 

“For the hundredth time, no!” The actor playing Julian yelled, and plunged the sword downward. From the space between the bedframe and the mattress, the Count drew a dramatic curved saber and parried; he sprung out of bed, his long white robe flapping. 

“That’s our cue.” Julian whispered in Iris’s ear, quietly rising from his seat. Iris glanced one more time at the stage, where the two actors were engaged in a dramatic stage fight, the clank of fake swords echoing through the hall, and rose with him. 

“Ilya...” Marek said, rising as well, confusion slapped across his face. 

“Have to fly. You know how it is.” Julian squeezed his shoulder but didn’t meet his eyes, before quickly descending the ladder to the stage hallway, holding his hands out for Iris so she could hop gracefully down from the last few rungs. 

They shouldered their way through the cast, slipping past Red and through the iron door out into the alley – Iris expected the sudden light to blind her, but she was surprised to find that the sun had set, and night had settled comfortably onto Vesuvia. 

Iris’s head twinged again, and this time she couldn’t stop her hands from flying to her temples. Julian grasped her shoulder and rubbed it gently. “You’ve been in pain since we left the garden.” 

She shook her hand at him – this was another deflection. “I’m fine. It’ll pass, especially after some sleep. Why did we leave?” 

Julian didn’t respond, but his downcast eye, the curve of his lips, betrayed his pain. “Let’s get you back to the Raven so you can rest.” 

Iris opened her mouth to speak, but her head pounded – she leaned her head onto Julian’s shoulder, her eyes scrunched up in agony. 

“Poor darling.” Julian murmured, wrapping his arm around her and leading her down the alley to the street, now dimly lit with a few sparsely placed lanterns. “Do you get headaches like this often?” 

Iris nodded. The throb in her head was more like a pounding at this point. She stifled a groan in the back of her throat. 

They rounded the corner into the market, which was mostly silent now. “It’s not uncommon in people who’ve lost memories, like you have.” Julian said, his voice low, soothing. “Recalling those memories can be quite taxing on the brain.” Iris lifted her head, her eyes searching his face. He met her gaze, eye glinting with knowing. “That is what happened, hm?” 

Iris said nothing. She wanted to close her eyes, to slip into sleep right there in Julian’s arms, anything to ease her aching head. 

“They say it gets easier over time. Like riding a horse, or...” Julian’s voice trailed off. 

“Fucking?” Iris finished his thought without thinking. 

A barking laugh escaped from Julian’s lips. “The first time is the hardest.” 

Iris buried her face into the sleeve of his shirt again, her eyes squeezed shut in a wince. “I wonder what our first time was like.” She murmured.

Julian’s voice was quiet, gentle, as his hand snaked up her back, to gingerly card his fingers through her shorn hair; Iris found the tender pressure unbearably comforting. “You didn’t hit your head, did you? It was only a few nights ago.” 

“Mmm...I think we both know that’s not true.” Iris mumbled, lifting her eyes. Her headache was, mercifully, receding – for now. Julian’s face was turned away from her as the Raven appeared in their view, the gold-and-silver light of the streetlamps catching in the riot of his hair, the arch and sinew of his neck.

“You’re avoiding me now?” Iris teased, straightening, unburdening Julian from her weight. “Afraid of a little clairvoyance, a little truth?”

“No...after all, the light is coming to take back what the darkness stole.” Julian replied, turning back to her, a small smirk playing across his sharp features. Iris snorted, but she bristled. That same line again. 

“Easily the worst line.” 

“Not ‘smother me with your thighs’?” 

Iris cackled as they ascended the rickety steps to the Raven. You could hardly tell that a few hours before, the guard had trashed the place. It was swarming again with the salt of Vesuvia, the tables and chairs righted and back in place, the bottles replaced behind the bar. 

A flash of white caught Iris’s eye – it was Aster at the bar, waving them over with a dishrag. She was already pouring the two of them drinks; Iris took a greedy gulp of hers, hoping the tart mead would help nurse her headache. 

“Juli honey, we were able to hide your tings from the guards – you’ll find ‘em back in your room. Your tings, too, Iris. Dey didn’ find any evidence of either of ya here.” Aster winked at two of them. “You should’a seen de temper tantrum dat brat de Consul trew when he realized you weren’t here. Never seen a grown man crush a wineglass in ‘is bare hand before.” 

“_Puno ti hvala_, Aster.” Julian said, raising his glass to her; her eyes twinkled, and with another wink, she flitted over to help another customer. Iris raised her glass to drink, too, but Julian draped his hand over her cup. “As a doctor, I can’t recommend drinking as a balm for your head...” He said softly, even as he took a sip; curiously, his expressive brows twinged.

Iris raised an eyebrow to him. “And as a fellow fugitive?” He quickly rearranged his features and smirked impishly, opening his mouth to reply, but a patron next to them groaned loudly, startling Iris. She jerked her head over to him and stared, flabbergasted – it was the rabbit guard, still in his costume, passed out drunk at the bar over several glasses of firewater.

Iris shook her head, as if shocked. Asra’s deck in her satchel fairly roared at her hip; she sprung into action, patting him down gently, searching for pockets. “Iris, what are you...” Julian began, but Iris held up a finger, finding a pocket and slipping her hand in. Her intuition didn’t fail her – with a surge of heat, she wrapped her fingers around the heavy cardstock and pulled her **Justice** card out of his pocket, showing it to Julian. 

“Damn.” She said quietly, her heart pounding. A single tear squeezed out of her eye as she took the deck out of her bag and shuffled the card back in; the deck seemed to finally release its bated breath. Julian cocked an eyebrow, clearly confused. “Its...it’s been a long day.” She explained, her voice small.

Julian nodded, his one-eyed gaze thoughtful. “A rabbit will run, and good dogs together go wild.” He muttered, mostly to himself; he took another sip of his drink.

“Hear, hear.” Iris agreed, tossing back the rest of her mead. A mistake – her headache returned with a vengeance, and she winced.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Julian said firmly, placing his hand over hers. “You should rest.” 

“Where? Your room? So can take advantage of me?” Iris winked at him, despite her pain. 

“Iris, I’m serious...” Julian said, his hand finding her shoulder and leading her away from the bar towards the back steps. 

“Oh, a _serious_ doctor, with _serious_ medical advice...” Iris teased, but she let him lead her up the stairs to the small room at the top of the stairs. Both of their things were there, as Aster promised – Julian’s satchel, and, shockingly, the folio and scroll that Iris and Julian had left on the table when they fled. Other than his satchel, there weren’t many of his belongings around, save for a notebook and a book at the small desk by the bed. 

“To bed with you.” Julian said adamantly, as Iris sat on the edge of the bed, wresting her bag from her shoulders. He kneeled and rummaged through his satchel, producing a green colored tincture, which he handed to Iris. 

“Two drops on the tongue. You’ll be asleep in a wink.” 

Iris wrapped her fingers around the bottle. “I will.” She met his gaze evenly. “But first, I have questions.” 

Julian rolled his eye in earnest now. “Really…?” 

“No, Julian, tell me. Why did we leave the play today? You were ashen. You were embarrassed. Tell me why.” Iris insisted. 

Julian heaved a heavy sigh, then sat on the bed next to Iris. It was a long time before he spoke, his fingers twined absentmindedly through his hair. “...It’s unsettling. To be seen as both a hero and a murderer. At the same time, to some. The people of this city buy me drinks, press coins into my palms, offer to hide me. They think I’m some hero. They’re putting themselves in danger for my sake.” 

Iris nodded, encouraging him. 

“…but I, uh...I feel like a fraud. The truth isn’t so simple.” 

Iris put a hand on his knee. “It never is, is it? What is the truth?” 

Julian shook his head. “Maybe another night...another set of questions.” He met her gaze, a gesture Iris immediately understood; he was offering himself up to be seen. Instead, Iris smiled, and handed him the tincture, outstretching her tongue to him. 

A slight flush sprung up across Julian’s cheekbones, but he unscrewed the tincture’s top and gently dropped two drops on her tongue. She tasted lavender, valerian, chamomile, the faintest flush of rose. 

She leaned back into the rough bedsheets, settling her head on the lumpy pillow. “And how will I find you next time?” 

Julian chuckled. “You don’t seem to have much of a problem finding me. I’m not too concerned.” 

Iris’s eyelids fluttered, heavy. “The Arcana do seem to enjoy bringing me back to you.”

Julian smirked, though it was quiet, half-teasing, half-gentle. “My turn. What did you see in the garden today?” He asked her, his hand finding her knee, the cool of his gloved fingers making her shiver. 

She smiled, her heavy gaze tracing the angles of his face – the arching brows, the sharp nose, the curving lips, the angular chin. “You.” She whispered. “It was a memory of you.” 

The last thing she saw before dropping into sleep was a genuine, unguarded smile creeping across Julian’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: **sips tea, is unsweet**_
> 
> _Listen y’all I got really into Sweetener while writing this chapter (which...definitely dates my writing process a bit) and I think it got a little weird? but I’m also not sorry about it. _
> 
> _See y'all in the Hierophant. _


	8. The Hierophant, Part 1: A Glimmer in the Dark and Now I Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Snail Mail - Pristine **
> 
> _ CW: someone gets slapped (it's Juli) _

Iris awoke the next morning in a rush of adrenaline to complete darkness; the sun had not yet risen. She bolted out of bed, her eyes darting wildly around the room, getting her bearings. The Raven. The room Aster loaned her often – no, the room Aster was loaning Julian. 

She wheeled around to glance at the other side of the bed – it was empty; he had eluded her again in her sleep. Her eyes fell on the desk, which wasn’t cleared of his things, but a sheet of paper was folded under the scroll and folio neatly stacked there. 

Iris smiled and unfolded it as she packed the things in her satchel. It was another drawing, this time from memory, of her face in profile – she was wearing the starstrand, her short, light hair raffishly mussed. From the corner of her eye, Iris saw a flash of blue; it was the flower, hung delicately from the low rafters of the room with medical twine to dry. 

Again, there was a note in Julian’s looping, sloping handwriting. _“The light is coming, my starstrand. -j.”_ Iris sighed, and slipped the paper into the folio. Just what she needed – another artfully vague lover. 

She descended the wooden stairs down to the tavern – even though it was quite early, some patrons were still drinking quietly in back booths. Some were passed out sleeping in their chairs over their steins, playing cards and crystal dominoes sticking to their faces. Iris found Aster still behind the bar, leaning on her elbows, reviewing the night’s ledgers with her callused fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. Iris still wasn’t sure when her friend slept.

Aster’s ears perked up when she heard footfalls on the worn, groaning planks of the stairwell, and her eyes twinkled mischievously when she saw Iris, a jaunty smile flashing across her features. Iris slid into one of the high chairs at the bar, and she was handed a cup of coffee, sweetened with honey and cream, by the morning girl. 

“Julian really wore ya out, huh?” Aster teased Iris. “You slept for nearly nine hours.” 

Iris smiled, but ignored the innuendo. “What time is it?” 

“About an hour before dawn. Why? Got somewhere to be this early in the mornin’?” 

“I do, actually.” Iris said, taking a long deep sip from her coffee cup. It was not an hour’s walk to the town square from here, but she would rather not be late. 

“Got a Countess to meet?” Aster raised her eyebrows. Iris set down the cup with a clink, brows furrowed, uncertain how to answer. “Hun, the whole town is talking about you. Summoned to the palace...you’re sighted here, then de guards swarm the whole Southside...people be talkin’, indeed.” 

Iris’s brow creased in thought, and she pressed her chin into her knuckles, leaning on her elbow. “They think I brought the guards here?” 

Aster pursed her lips, drumming her fingers on the ledger. “I heard a few gossips jawing ‘bout it last night, but dey got told real quick. I tink mos’ folks ‘round here know you’re not one for turnin’.” She took a long sip of her coffee, her eyes far away. “But dat don’t mean the palace ain’t taking ya for a ride.” 

“You think they’re having me followed?” Iris asked. A plate of bread covered in sesame seeds, sweet farm cheese, and currant jam was set in front of her, again by the morning girl; Iris ate, realizing, with a growl of her stomach, that she hadn’t eaten much of anything since her breakfast yesterday. 

“Who’s to say?” Aster shrugged. “I jus’ want you to be careful; you can’t play both sides forever. You know you always have a place here if you need to lay low.” Iris smiled appreciatively, tearing apart another slice of bread to dip into the sour jam. There was no need for thanks – Aster and Iris had watched each other’s backs since they were teenagers, according to Aster. Of course, Iris had no memory of it now, and she had no reason to disbelieve it; Aster was a good and loyal friend to her. 

“Did you see Julian last night?” She asked Aster between bites. Aster shrugged again slowly, shaking her head and frowning. 

“I wasn’t lookin’ for him; I assumed he was wit’ you, rearrangin’ your guts. But who knows with dat man? He’s in and out all night since he started stayin’ here.” Aster smirked now at Iris. “What is it wit’ you and difficul’ bedfellows? You’ve got two on your hands now. Mus’ be a lot t’ hold on to.” 

Iris laughed loudly, throwing her head back. “It is a lot to hold on to.” She replied with a wink, making two long, loose-gripped stroking motions with both hands. 

Aster slapped her shoulder lightly with the back of her hand, her gap-toothed grin in full view. “Good. You best go now. Don’t wanna keep the Countess waitin’. Though...” Aster looked her up and down, clicking her tongue. “You’ve probably time for a change of clothin’.”

Iris quickly polished off the rest of her bread and drained her coffee. “Trust me, I’d change if I could – white is not for me. But it’s all I have on me.” 

Aster scoffed. “I’ve got someting I can spare.” 

Minutes later, Iris was stepping over the threshold of the tavern in a pair of soft, diamond-embroidered harem pants in dove gray and a waist-length light blue peasant shirt. She wrapped a shibori-dyed indigo shawl around her shoulders to ward against the pre-dawn chill. The garments from the palace were stuffed ungracefully into her satchel. 

“Put breakfast on Julian’s tab!” She called over her shoulder – the last thing she heard as she descended the stairs to the wooden catwalk above the aqueducts was Aster’s wild cackle. 

There was practically no one awake as Iris picked her way through the streets, save for a handful of enterprising shopkeeps already prepping for the day’s business, and the occasional guard; catching sight of their white and silver uniforms now made Iris twinge. She turned over what Aster had told her. Was it possible that Nadia knew of her relationship with Julian, and was using her to get to him? Iris had assumed that Nadia’s memories were gone, too – though she and Nadia had clearly been friends before, the Countess had never let on that she retained any recollection of Iris. 

Her intuition nagged at her as she approached the town square – the horizon was just now beginning to whisper with soft peaches and aurora greens, and the air around her was lightening with each passing minute. She knew nothing of the workings of the palace – could someone at court be scheming behind Nadia’s back? The image of the young Consul, his snide boredom, his sureness as he crossed the threshold of the Raven, flashed in Iris’s mind’s eye. He was captain of the guard, Iris knew, and a member of Nadia’s circle of courtiers, the lawyer who represented the interests of the court and the city, second in line for the seat. Was it possible…? 

At the grand fountain, Portia’s wood carriage was parked, the spotted mares sleeping standing up. Two guards flanked the cabin door – one stepped forward as Iris approached. She lowered the hood of her shawl, squaring her shoulders; the guard recognized her, and stepped aside. The other guard rapped loudly on the carriage door. 

After a beat, the door opened, and Portia’s head emerged, her hair disheveled, her eyes lidded and sleepy. Iris felt a pang of guilt – Portia must have slept in the carriage, waiting for her return. “Iris...” she mumbled, her eyes flitting to the horizon. “Just in time. Do you...” 

The card practically flew into her hand – she held it up between two fingers in front of Portia’s face. **Justice**.

Portia smirked. “Incredible. Nadia was worried when you didn’t return last night, but I knew you’d come through.” Her eyes flitted across Iris’s body now. “What happened to your clothes?” 

Iris laughed, a little darkly. “You dressed me in white, and then made me traipse across the entire realm looking for a single Tarot card. They got a little dirty.” 

Portia considered this, lips pursed. “This was an impulse of Milady’s, that’s for sure. We certainly could have equipped you better.” Portia gestured for Iris to join her in the carriage. “No matter now. I’ve brought a change of clothes for you.” 

Iris cocked an eyebrow as she clambered into the cabin. “Why? We’re going back to the palace.” 

Portia shook her head. “Nadia is announcing the masquerade here at peak hours today, which doesn’t give us enough time to go back to the palace and return. I thought you would like this chance to check on your shop, since your mentor is also away. You can change there, and freshen up if you need to. Though...” Portia regarded her curiously. “...you might have just come from there, no?” 

Iris’s heart bloomed at Portia’s thoughtfulness – she realized she had missed her shop. “I didn’t actually...it would be lovely, Portia, thank you.” 

Portia rapped loudly on the ceiling of the cabin, and the carriage lunged forward – Iris braced herself just in time. “If you didn’t stay there...where were you?” 

Iris bit her lip. “I was searching most of the day and ended up on the Southside. I have a friend who owns an inn there.” 

It was Portia now who cocked her eyebrow. “The Rowdy Raven?” 

Iris’s nerves sparked, and she tensed. “How did you know?” 

Portia wiggled her eyebrows, grinning. “I have my sources. We certainly wouldn’t have invited you to the palace without vetting you extensively first. There was quite a hubbub there yesterday, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“My friend told me.” Iris said carefully. “The guards had a warrant.” 

Portia pursed her lips, her hands steepled in front of her. “Milady was not happy about that. The Consul got all the courtiers to sign the warrant without asking for her signature first. She’s worried that it spooked the doctor, and from what I’ve heard, he’s pretty slippery.” 

Iris chewed this information over as the carriage jerked over increasingly uneven cobblestones. “So the Countess didn’t call for the search?” 

“Absolutely not. In fact, the fair Consul got quite an earful when he returned last night.” 

The carriage lurched to a halt as relief washed over Iris. Nadia was not using her to get to Julian...but maybe Consul Valerius was. Iris’s intuition whispered to her that she might be able to play this to her advantage. 

The door to the cabin opened, and Portia gestured for Iris to dismount first. Iris stepped down, and a cascade of emotions flowed through her as her eyes alighted on the door of the Indigo Child. It seemed to fairly glow in the early morning mists. 

She pressed her palm into the worn wood of the door as Portia’s feet hit the cobblestones behind her. White light untraced the protection Iris placed on it only a few days before, and Iris deftly unlocked each of the locks. As she went to step over the threshold, she kicked over a small leather pouch, spilling herbs over the top step. 

There was an overwhelming smell of myrrh and sage – Iris bent down to touch the herbs now dotting the stoop. A protection spell, and a strong one at that, albeit elementary; a surge of familiarity swam over her, though she couldn’t place it. She stowed the pouch in her bag and swept the fallen herbs away, before opening the door for Portia, gesturing for her to enter. 

The shop was chilly, the air still – with a snap of her fingers, Iris lit a fire in the hearth. “Portia, would you like a cup of tea?” Iris asked, and before Portia could answer, the kettle flew from the back room to the hook on the mantle, fresh water sloshing inside. 

Portia laughed. “Sure. What do you have?” 

Iris shook her head, smirking. “The better question is, what don’t we have?” She gestured to an entire section of tea in airtight glass canisters behind the counter. “Please, feel free.” 

Portia opened one carefully and sniffed deeply – a small sigh of delight escaped from her parted lips. “This may take me a moment.” 

“No worries – the water needs to boil anyway. Here, let me go change while you choose.” 

Portia handed her the clothing – Iris was startled by how impossibly soft and gauzy the fabric was. Mercifully, it was not white this time, but what Iris could only describe as dusk colored; in one light, it was a dove gray, in another a soft brown, in yet another, a smoky purple. She folded the dress over her arms and quickly ascended the stairs. 

When Iris was three steps from the top of the stairs, the curtain at the landing fluttered, and a shadowy figure emerged. Instinctually, Iris drew the athame in her satchel, brandishing it, a full-throated cry of warning to Portia rising into her throat, but a long gloved finger touched her lips, silencing her; the other hand wrapped itself around her wrist and skillfully wrested the knife away. 

Julian met her eyes briefly, a warning, before pointing his gaze downward, listening carefully. Below them, Portia was humming contentedly, opening the lid to another tea canister. She’d heard nothing of their scuffle. 

Julian tugged Iris by her wrist into her flat. Iris took back the athame and sheathed it, draping the dress over the chintz armchair by the landing before wheeling on him. 

“You’re lucky you’re handsome.” She whispered fiercely, “I was ready to gut you like a fish.” 

“Hello to you too.” Julian couldn’t help but smirk. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“Sure, fancy seeing me in _my own fucking home._ How did you even get in, Julian? And why are you here?” 

Julian raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk widening. “I’m glad to see your head is better. You’re quite feisty when you’re well-slept.” 

Iris glared at him. “You can’t flirt your way out of this, Julian. Either you broke in again, or...”

His face fell, surprising Iris. With a ragged sigh, he reached into a secret pocket on the inside of his shirtsleeve, revealing a tiny copper key that Iris recognized immediately as a copy of the backroom key. 

“How did you–” Iris began, but Julian pressed the key into her palm and folded her fingers gently around it. 

“I won’t be using it again. Next time, I’ll knock.” He smiled slightly, a little sheepishly. Iris’s brow furrowed, but she said nothing, turning the key over in her fingers. She glanced around the room – she saw the bed was unmade, a fire sputtering in the hearth. 

“Wait, Julian...did you _sleep_ here last night?”

Julian’s ears reddened. “I, uh...well, that’s...I...I can explain...” 

“I have time.” Iris said, sitting imperiously on the arm of the chair, one leg folded over the other, the top foot bobbing. “What, you can fuck me and draw me in my sleep but you can’t spend the night with me?” 

Julian couldn’t turn redder if he had dipped his face in paint. His lips curled around his response when the curtain squealed open on its rings. 

“Iris…?” Portia said, peeking her face through the doorframe. “For...forgive me, I thought I heard voices...” Her eyes flitted to Iris, perched on the armchair, then across the room, where her gaze landed on Julian. Slowly, her jaw dropped, her eyes wide – Iris saw many emotions flash across Portia’s features before her voice leapt from her throat, a shaky, childlike sound. 

“Ilya?” 

Iris gasped softly as the puzzle pieces fit together in her head. Her gaze swung to Julian’s face – if it was red just one moment before, it was ghostly white now. Portia stumbled to him, her eyes now sparkling with tears, her hands reaching up to touch his cheeks, as if she needed proof of his existence in this realm. "_Ilja, jesi li to stvarno ti?_"

Julian’s eyes began to shine, too. “It’s me, Pasha.” 

Before Iris even registered what was happening, Portia’s hand flew back quickly, and then the cozy room reverberated with the sound of skin striking skin as she slapped him. “You stupid bastard!” Portia shouted, and Julian winced, clutching his face, an embarrassed flush creeping across his cheeks. “What were you thinking, coming back to the city? Are you trying to get yourself killed? This mess you’ve made...” Portia was wracked with sobs now, burying her face in his shirt. “It’ll be the end of you...” 

Julian’s hands rested on her shoulders, his gaze tender. “You’ve grown up so strong, Pashinka. I...I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it.” 

With a jolt, Iris realized she shouldn’t be watching this reunion. She grabbed the dress off the chair and slipped down the stairs. 

The kettle was whistling softly as Iris entered the shop. She removed it from the fire and took two Franc presses down from the tea cupboard – one she filled with black tea and chai spices, the other, with ground coffee, cardamom, and a touch of honey. She added the hot water to both and let them steep while she dressed there in the front room. 

The dress was floor-length, gauzy but not see-through, with elegant billowing sleeves and a wrapped top that emphasized Iris’s chest and waist. As Iris lifted it over her head, she saw the fabric shimmered gold, silver, and lavender as it caught the light. There was no mirror in the front room, so Iris conjured one to primp herself with – the soft color made her skin look especially pale, her blonde hair especially light. She attempted to fix her short, mussed waves; they were sticking up in all directions from sleep, and no amount of smoothing would fix them. What she desperately needed was a bath. 

There was also a pair of shoes by Portia’s satchel; another pair of embroidered slippers, this time silver and gold arabesques on silk the same color as the dress. She slipped them on gently, her calloused feet looking rough against the delicate fabric. Iris thought absentmindedly of her jewelry box in the bedroom. Just as she was wondering how long she would be waiting, there was a thundering down the stairs and the back door slammed, making Iris jump. 

Softer footfalls followed, and Julian peeked his head around the corner of the landing, his gaze falling on Iris. “My one consolation was that I had skipped the door-slamming phase of her girlhood.” He joked to Iris, who smiled obligingly. 

“Some of us never grow out of it.” She said. “So...Portia is the sister?” 

“Ah...um, yes.” Julian flushed. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” 

“Don’t be. It was touching to see you reunite.” Iris poured the coffee into a hand-thrown mug and handed it to Julian. “Will she be okay?” 

“I think she just needs a moment. She’s as hot-headed as I remember.” Julian took a grateful sip, but his face contorted into a moue of disgust. 

“...What?” 

“Coffee should _not_ be this sweet.” 

“Ooo. We’re about to have our first fight.” Iris teased, sipping from her own mug. 

“Somehow, I doubt that.” Julian replied with a knowing arch of his brow, and took another polite drink. Iris felt a gentle blush spread across her chest. 

For a moment, they were silent, standing awkwardly over the hearth, drinking their coffee. Iris cleared her throat. “Portia’s right. You shouldn’t stay here.” She lowered her voice. “Aster thinks I’m being followed. The Consul strong-armed the Chamber into ordering the search at the Raven without the Countess’s permission. They could easily search here next if they think we’re...involved.” 

Julian’s brow darkened. “The more things change, the more they stay the same, hm?” He muttered. Iris nodded and tenderly touched his face. 

“Is there anywhere else you can go? Asra said you had friends in the city.” At the mention of the magician, another flush rose in Julian’s cheeks. 

“I have people and know places; you needn’t worry about me. And, Iris...” He paused, uncertain. “...to be clear...I wanted to stay. I, uh…don’t...I didn’t want you to get tangled up this mess.” 

Iris snorted, gently thumbing the hollow of his cheek. “Well, consider me ensnared. By no doing of your own.” He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. 

“I should go. Tell Portia that if she wants to reach me, she can leave messages with Tilde, the leechmonger in the Southside market. I stop by pretty frequently. Have her use the code ‘sweet pea.’ And the cipher. She’ll know what it means.” 

Iris nodded – she leaned in and gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek. “Please be careful.” She implored him as he wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. He grasped her arms and planted a deep kiss on her lips. 

“No promises.” He said, taking three long strides to the door before turning, a rougish grin slicing across his face. “Oh, and Iris...you look ravishing.” His wolfish gaze roved down her body, then flitted back up to her face. “I would have you here and now, if I could.” 

Iris blushed fiercely, making him chuckle as he shut the door behind him. No sooner than he left than Portia returned through the back door, her eyes red from crying. Her eyes met Iris’s and she straightened, crossing the room to her.

“Oh, Iris, you’re dressed. You look lovely, as always. Here...” She licked her thumb and smoothed Iris’s hair, then tousled it artfully. “Short hair is tricky, isn’t it? Long hair you can just pull up. I see you found the slippers. Oh!” 

Iris furrowed her eyebrows as Portia rummaged through her bag, biting back the questions that swirled against her tongue. The handmaiden pulled a moss green velvet pouch from her bag and placed it in Iris’s hands, along with a note from the Countess. 

“Go ahead, open it.” 

Iris gently tugged open the drawstrings and upended the pouch into her hand – out fell a large and heavy moon-shaped emerald on an impossibly fluid gold chain. Her eyes swam for a moment at the gorgeousness of it before she was absolutely overwhelmed by Asra’s magic, so potent that his soothing scent filled her nostrils, the smell of woodsmoke and herbs and oranges, so powerful that she felt his warm arms around her, his lips soft and sensuous, smiling against her kiss. Her heart swelled, and her breath caught audibly in her throat. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And it really complements your tones. Milady has an impeccable eye for these things. Go on – read it.” Portia took the necklace from Iris’s palm and went to fasten it around her neck while Iris carefully unfolded the note. 

_Dearest Iris_, it read. _It is rare that anyone exceeds my expectations, and if this note finds you, it means that you have not only completed your task, but you have done so with aplomb, as determined by dear Portia. I look forward to our partnership, and our friendship moving forward. This emerald has been sitting in my jewelry box for some time, and it has never spoken to me. Until tonight – my intuition compelled me to hold it in my hands, and it practically keened for you. I hope you will wear it for the announcement this morning. Consider it a gift – a token of my trust in you. Oh, and Iris – you may call me Nadia._

Iris’s hand rose to the emerald, which sat right above the place where her breasts met. In the magic mirror before her, it looked as if she was always meant to wear it. 

“I’m not sure how I finished the task with aplomb, but...thank you, Portia.” 

“Well...” She swallowed. “I figured if you could find Ilya and the card, you must be a pretty skilled magician, no?” Her eyes flitted warningly to Iris’s. She did not want to discuss it any further. 

Iris raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. 

“We should probably go...” Portia said, glancing out the window. The sun had fully risen now, and the sounds of the market were floating through the early morning air. “I imagine Milady will want to make the announcement soon.” 

Iris disappeared the mirror before them and picked up her satchel. She handed Portia’s bag to her. “Let’s go.”

** *** **

Iris stood in an ornate doorway in a wing of the palace she had not yet stepped in, her hand held out to the porter in pause as she steadied her breath. The announcement of the masquerade, made little more than an hour ago, had rattled her – Nadia had insisted that Iris mount the stage with her, standing in the back with Portia and a few other members of the palace staff, the Chamber notably absent.

Though the Countess did not make mention of her role in the investigation during the announcement, nor that they were searching for Julian, Iris felt acutely aware of the eyes on her. Friends from the market, Selasi and the kind-faced woman who sold sweetened mint tea in the stall next to his, Aster, who winked broadly when Iris caught her eye. She even thought she spotted Sela and Marek, his kind eyes, the ink-dark of her hair. But as she scanned the crowd, she got curious looks from some – confusion, averted eyes, some faces even twisting with sheer terror and disbelief. It unsettled her, churning her stomach a little raw, but she was too busy searching the crowd, she realized, for a familiar long, limber shape watching from the shadows, or, even more improbably, a riot of white curls flitting through the crowd, the teasing glint of violet eyes, amber lips wound around a secret smile.

Iris hardly heard Nadia’s speech, but whatever she had said, her voice sultry and gentle, wise, with just a touch of careful humor, it had been a riotous success; the people were still dancing in the streets with joy. The ride back to the palace in Portia’s carriage had been choked with revelers who chanted Nadia’s name like a bar hymn. 

Iris had barely had time to return to her quarters before she had been summoned to Nadia’s wing to meet with her and Consul Valerius – she didn’t even have time to drop her satchel on the bed. Her stomach had turned again as her eyes swept over the scroll, sealed with the Consuls insignia; unbidden, Faust had revealed herself from her hiding spot in the guestroom and coiled herself around Iris’s shoulders, practically purring. 

Iris absentmindedly scratched the familiar’s head now – she found her presence comforting, and, secretly, she hoped the image of her draped across Iris’s body would be unsettling for the Consul. She sucked on her teeth, collecting her breath to her. She was ready to be fearsome; she was ready to come clean to Nadia. 

She nodded to the porter, who wrenched open the door. “The magician Iris, apprentice to the magician Asra, Milady!” He bellowed, and Iris stepped over the threshold. 

The parlor was hazy and filled with pungent jasmine incense. It was an achingly luxurious room, the walls papered with images of exotic flowers, the amber wooden floors covered with exquisite plush carpets and bowing with gilded musical instruments. Nadia sat now at the harp, playing a delicate and contemplative harmony; Consul Valerius looked bored, lounging on an overstuffed chaise, a full glass of wine raised to his lips. 

At the announcement of her arrival, Nadia looked up at Iris, not ceasing her playing – a jolt of electricity shot through Iris’s spine as their eyes met, an expression Iris had never seen before steeling her gaze. It was a warning, no, an invitation; Nadia was going to make a move. 

Iris swept into a full curtsy, mindful of Faust on her shoulders. Consul Valerius stood, not letting go of his wineglass. He was first to speak as Nadia finished her phrase, her elegant hands hovering over the strings as the delicate sound whisked itself away into the ether. 

“You must be the delightful Iris. It is lovely to connect the face to the name.” He extended his hand to her, which Iris shook firmly. They stared each other down – Iris’s found herself memorizing his youthful but narrow features. Iris knew he was a lawyer, earning his certification in Vesuvian law at the tender age of 23 – she remembered the announcement, a very early memory of hers, one that Asra had glowered darkly at, saying nothing kind. 

Her skin prickled. Something was not right. She searched deep in his eyes, and found recognition, chilly and – disgusted? – just like the others who had looked at her in fear in the square that morning. He knew her. _He remembered her_. From before? Iris steadied herself, acknowledged the rush of emotions that came to her, and calmly packed them away to examine later.

“Your manners are impeccable – for someone from the slums.” His lip twitched into the shadow of a sneer, spinning his wineglass languidly as he looked her up and down hungrily. “And you polish up quite nicely. Surprisingly.” 

“Consul.” Nadia warned, her voice even but venomous. She stood, and crossed the room to them gracefully. “I would not insult a guest of the palace in your position, especially after the stunt you pulled yesterday.” 

Valerius sneered fully this time, but it quickly melted into a simmering glower. “I’m not sure what you mean, Milady.” 

Nadia placed a hand on Iris’s shoulder, her back to the Consul. Their eyes met, and Nadia’s flashed with amusement. “I think you do. And I believe Iris does, too. The guards overran her dear friend’s establishment yesterday – the very one where she found Ludovico passed out drunk with the **Justice** card.” She turned to him, her robes flowing softly around her. “I certainly did not call for that search, as you well know.”

Valerius flushed. “The Chamber did, Milady. We felt we had no choice. We were concerned… concerned about the associations of your new pet.” 

Iris bristled, but smiled sweetly. “What are your concerns, Consul? I would love to unburden you of them.” The dulcet words fell unbidden from her lips, and Iris was surprised by her own boldness, the quickness and sureness of her measured speech. 

The Consul’s face twisted into a grin. “We have evidence that you have connections to the fugitive Dr. Devorak.” 

Iris didn’t waver. “That’s true, Consul. My mentor and the doctor worked closely years ago when the plague was at large. Nadia herself has acknowledged this.” 

The Consul’s grin widened. “You misunderstand. I mean...current connections. So current...” He sniffed obscenely. “...you could smell them.” 

Faust rose from Iris’s shoulder, her tongue flickering menacingly. Valerius eyed her warily, a flicker of fear warming his features like a spark, before it was dashed, doused in cold calm. 

_Liar…_

Iris smiled wider. “And what is your evidence?” 

Valerius faltered. “We have eyewitnesses. We have persistent rumors.” 

Nadia raised her eyebrows. “The rumors...they’re hearsay, are they not? And your witnesses...are they reliable? Ludovico seems like he may be too far into the bottle to trust, if I say so myself, Consul. He has been tailing Iris since before I visited her, no? Is that not how you knew that she was at the Raven yesterday?” 

Iris smiled – her suspicions were confirmed. Valerius wheeled on Nadia, his brows arching wildly. “Yet you gave him the card yesterday, Milady?” 

Her eyes twinkled. “I did not. I gave it to Bludmila – they must have switched at some point. I told them it was allowed. A better test of Iris’s ability.” She smirked. “And she passed with flying colors, hm?” 

Iris pressed her fingers into her lips daintily, smiling widely, savagely. 

The Consul was livid. “I’m sure you could find evidence of her associations now, Milady.” He spat. “The doctor’s seed is probably still wet in her womb.” 

Iris could not keep the color from rushing to her face; Nadia’s face twisted into a dark scowl now. “You are out of bounds, Consul.” The Countess fairly growled. “I will not tolerate baseless accusations of anyone’s modesty.” 

Iris saw her opening and moved. “Nadia...though the Consul is crude and off-base, I did meet with Doctor Devorak yesterday. I left the palace grounds because I was compelled to him by his possessions that I found in the library – a letter and a folio of his notes. I had a chance to interview him.” She turned to Nadia, who was unmoved, a small smile curling in the corner of her mouth. Understanding flooded Iris – she knew. 

Iris continued. “I was thinking about the **Justice** reading I gave you yesterday. I have my own questions regarding the doctor’s guilt, and the means through which his confession was made. Obviously, I wasn’t there that night, but what I’ve heard is that it was coerced through confession methods. I have...qualms about allowing this be the basis of a man’s death.” She leveled her gaze with Valerius. “If I remember correctly, you were Captain of the Guard then, as well. How was the confession obtained?” 

The Consul’s expression darkened. “No method that was used on the doctor was illegal. That is a fact.” 

Iris pursed her lips and chose her words carefully. “You’re not answering my question, Consul. I don’t question the legality of the methods; I question the morality.” 

Beside her, Nadia glowed. “I, too, have questions about this, Consul. Please...enlighten us about these methods.” 

To Iris’s surprise, the Consul blushed. “It is...it is not a topic of polite conversation.” 

She raised an eyebrow and laughed coldly. “You can talk about someone’s seed in my womb but you can’t talk about torture methods? That seems like a double standard.” 

“I agree, Iris.” Nadia said. “Consul. Continue.” 

Valerius fumed, embarrassed. Nadia tutted. 

“If it is too gruesome for you to speak of, it is too gruesome to allow. The fact that we brand criminals is, by its own virtue, a symbol of how barbaric our justice system is.” She looked sidelong at Iris, her eyes dancing now. “Our conversation of the **Justice** card had me thinking too, Iris. I should like to reform the Vesuvian justice system, starting now.

“No longer shall we allow confessions induced by torture, nor brand criminals in accordance to their crimes. And...” She turned to the Consul now. “I should like to imbue each Vesuvian citizen, or anyone accused of a crime in Vesuvia, with a right from my childhood home. No one is condemned without a public trial. That means the doctor’s trial, should we choose to move forward, will be determined by a vote of the people.”

There was a terrible sound of glass breaking – the wineglass in the Consul’s hand had shattered; rich red wine and blood both ran down his arm, staining the sleeve of his white robes. 

A servant in the corner rushed forward to clean up the mess, and, shockingly, placed another full goblet in the Consul’s other hand. He swirled it, sticking his nose over the lip of the glass and sniffing deeply. 

“That is well and good, Milady, but the Chamber will have to agree to it, and I can assure you they will protest.” His eyes twinkled now – this was his checkmate. 

Nadia opened her mouth, but it was Iris who spoke next. “But doesn’t Nadia, as the ruling Countess, appoint the Chamber? Are you not from Count Lucio’s Chamber?”

Nadia couldn’t suppress a smile. “Yes, Iris, this is true. The Chamber has gone above and beyond fulfilling their duties long past their term while I was indisposed, an act of service and sacrifice which will not be forgotten.” Her gaze on the Consul turned cold, imperious. “But in the new year, after the masquerade, I shall select a new Chamber, as is my right as the lawful Countess by marriage. Consul, if you and the chamber do not fall in line, you risk your chance of being selected again. That is a promise.” 

With this, she waved her hand at Valerius. “You are dismissed.” 

Valerius scowled, and bowed petulantly. As he rose, he staggered dramatically, tipping his full wineglass – it spilled over the soft gauze of Iris’s dress, completely wetting the front with dark red. 

For a moment, Iris was stunned; then, her magic seemed to move on its own. She held her hand out in front of the stain, her fingers tense – the liquid rose from the fabric, leaving no trace. The wine swirled in front of her in a large orb. With a flick of her wrist, Iris flung it on the Consul, who gasped and jumped back. 

“Oh, sorry...” Iris’s fingertips flew to her mouth in mock surprise. “It’s a new spell...I’m still perfecting it.” 

She made no move to fix it, even as Valerius held his arms out, his robes dripping. With a huff, he exited the room, the door slamming behind him. 

For a moment, the room was wrapped in heavy silence. Then, Nadia burst out laughing, her mouth wide – she nearly doubled over as her body shook. 

“Iris, you could not have done better if I coached you through every line.” She gasped, and wiped her mouth, regaining her composure. She placed her hand on Iris’s shoulder and squeezed proudly. “That last move was inspired. Valerius will remember it always, more than his embarrassment in our verbal spar.” She raised a sculpted eyebrow. “And I’m not sure how you knew of that marital law, but I’m quite impressed.” 

Iris bit her lip. “Nadia...I have more that I need to say.” 

Nadia raised both eyebrows now. “I see. Please, continue.” 

Iris paused, uncertain how to explain. “I...the Consul was not wrong. I am...sleeping with Julian...the doctor. It started the night before you came to my shop...before I knew what your charge of me was. I accepted...” Iris swallowed. “I accepted because I want the truth, too. I’m missing memories… any memory of my life before three years ago, and I knew...my intuition told me that Julian was somehow connected to those memories. That chasing after his truth would help me uncover mine.” She breathed a heavy sigh. “You and I – we’re both looking for the light in this darkness of unknowing. It made sense to me. I...I never meant to deceive you.” 

Nadia surveyed her for a moment, then smiled. “Forgive me, Iris, but...I had an inkling, from the moment we first met. It does not matter to me, especially now that you have disclosed it. I am missing many memories, too… undoubtedly from my long time in a deep sleep. What I want is the truth, and that is what you want, too. My only ask of you...” She smirked now. “...is that you bring the good doctor to me so that I may question him myself.” 

Iris blinked. She didn’t expect this conversation to go so smoothly. “I’ll do my best, Milady. He’s a bit…jumpy when it comes to the palace.” 

Now, Nadia laughed. “Please…call me Nadia. And...I have a feeling he will follow you anywhere, Iris.” She smiled kindly now. “I’m very happy to see you are wearing the emerald. It suits you so.” Nadia reached out carefully and traced the chain fondly.

“It is a very generous gift...thank you.” Iris blushed a little now. 

Nadia’s eyes danced. “It pleases me to spoil you. You are dismissed...I am sure you have much work to do.” She turned away, sitting again at the harp. 

Iris heaved another relieved sigh. She turned and headed to the door, stroking sweet Faust’s forehead. Nadia’s voice interrupted her departure. 

“Iris...thank you for your honesty. Let’s be honest with each other in the future...shall we?” Nadia’s smile was sweet, sincere, almost girlish. Friendly.

Iris found herself smiling, too.“Yes...let’s.” Nadia nodded and turned to her harp, expertly plucking the opening phrases to a sweet, hopeful ballad. 

Iris’s hand wrapped around the doorknob; its heat shocked her as she was plunged into a memory.

_Iris was sitting on the arm of a chair, no, the arm of a golden throne. Nadia sat in the throne beneath her, regal, upright – it was Iris who was draped lazily, nearly folded over herself, her foot bobbing with boredom, her arms crossed. _

_Nadia was dressed in finery even more dazzling than normal – a gorgeous, velvet robe belted at the waist in undulating hues of dark, inky purple, her neck heavy with gold and jewels, her long hair plastered tight in an intricate chignon at the nape of her neck, crown topped with a ceremonial tiara. Iris wore all white, a coordinating lace top and a long skirt. Her long hair was piled on her head in a dramatic updo like a halo, held in place with long, gilded, pearl-ended pins. _

_Consul Valerius was before them, sweeping into a low bow, though, Iris realized, he was probably not old enough to be addressed as Consul now. His face was more youthful, fuller, sweeter. His cool, sharp gray eyes flitted up to them, surging quickly to Iris before meeting Nadia’s imperious gaze. _

_“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Milady. I hope we will be friends in the future, now that I am a member of your dear husband’s Chamber.” He rose from his bow gracefully, his cap still in hand. Nadia begrudgingly held out her hand; he leapt forward to kiss her ring, a slight blush creeping across his cheeks. _

_Iris raised her eyebrows. “Careful now. Lucy might ask for a threesome.” _

_Valerius’s blush deepened immensely. Nadia rolled her eyes, and waved her hand to dismiss him; he practically ran out of the room. _

_Nadia sighed heavily, cradling her forehead between her thumb and her fingers. “What is Lucio thinking…he’s just a whelp...” _

_Iris snorted, examining her fingernails. “His mother was the previous Consul, his family’s rich and powerful, he’s handsome, he’s going to be a lawyer. What did you expect? The coffers don’t fill themselves. Lucy’s dick doesn’t wet itself.” _

_Nadia opened one eye, regarding Iris. “You’re not wrong. If it were me...I would only appoint the most suitable to the Chamber. Not the most lucrative.” _

_Iris raised her head and met Nadia’s gaze, smiling jauntily. “Ah, but now you’re thinking like a ruler, and not a spoiled brat.” _

_Nadia bristled, her eyes dark. “If he were out of the way...I could elect the Chamber.” _

_Iris stiffened a little. She had never heard Nadia speak this openly about her hatred of Lucio outside her private chambers. “Want me to poison him? A slip of starstrand, some castor beans, boiled potato leaves...” Iris joked. Nadia shook her head. _

_Iris shrugged. “Well...let’s at least make this fun. A hundred pentacles says that Lucy beds him by the end of the month.” _

_Nadia laughed, a bit coldly. “That’s not a bet I’m willing to take.” _

_Iris shrugged again, returning her attention to her nails when the door to the receiving room burst open. It was Julian; in his arms was a small bouquet of purple-throated irises, the first of the season. He presented them to Iris with a dramatic flourish, bending down on one knee. _

_Iris smirked. “How creative.” She joked, but she was delighted._

_A grin curved across his winsome face. “I know you love them.” He rose, and Iris took the bouquet from him, smelling deeply. A gentle hand found her chin, pulling her gaze up to meet his. He leaned down and kissed her, passionately, with only a touch of reluctance; Iris knew he still withered a little under Nadia’s gaze, even though they were all friends. _

_He pulled away and planted a quick kiss on her forehead before turning to bow quickly to Nadia. She smiled, waved her hand; he made to leave the room, but Iris called after him. _

_“I’m not done with you, you know.” He turned, surprised, and she winked devilishly. “See you tonight.” _

_He blushed deeply and stumbled a little as he left. Iris chuckled, burying her nose in the flowers again. It was Nadia who spoke next, her honeyed voice dripping. _

_“The things I would do to that man.” _

_Iris couldn’t help but gasp, wheeling on Nadia, a surprised smile streaking across her face. “That...is my man!” _

_Nadia laughed, fully, sonorously. “Honesty in all things, no?” _

Iris came to with a shudder: Nadia was regarding her curiously. “Are you all right, Iris?” 

“I...” Iris turned to her. “It was a memory.” 

Nadia grinned, her even teeth showing. “Astonishing, Iris. One worth sharing?” 

Iris’s eyes twinkled. “Forgive me, Nadia...but, someday. I promise.” 

Nadia nodded, accepting this. “I’ll hold you to it.” Iris closed the door behind her, to find the twin handmaidens, Primula and Ami, waiting outside; they curtsied in unison.

“Portia sent us. She thought you might like more time in the library.” Ami, the more talkative one, said. The serious one, Primula, was holding Portia’s heavy ring of keys.

“Actually...” Iris chewed this over. “That would be lovely. Please.” She gestured for the handmaidens to lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: Who needs lying cat when you have lying Faust_
> 
> _Also I feel like I get inordinate joy from making Julian a lil punching bag? Portia totally would slap a bish if they needed it and looooooord does Juli need it every once in a while_
> 
> _See you in part 2 y’all (Also strap in it’s gonna be a doozy)_


	9. The Hierophant, Part 2: Let Me Occupy Your Mind, As You Do Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Gotye - Heart's A Mess **
> 
> _ CW: Major character death reference, depression, attempted suicide, and sadomasochism _
> 
> _If you are having thoughts of suicide, please talk to a mental health professional, call 1-800-273-8255 (if you’re in the US) or text 741741 (US), 686868 (Canada), or 85258 (UK). [Click here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines) for a more comprehensive list of suicide crisis lines around the world._

Iris kicked off her slippers as Ami and Primula closed the library door behind them, leaving the young magician to the musty gloom. In the chaos of the last two days, Iris hadn’t forgotten about the enchanting library, though now that she was here, she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for. Absentmindedly, she ran her hands over the spines of the ancient, time-worn tomes that lined the shelves, the keys to a piano that she longed, she longed, to play, her fingertips coming away thick with dust and grime. It was a shame that this treasure had become so neglected. Once this, all of it, was over...she would have to convince Nadia to have the library restored.

Iris’s feet carried her, without thinking, to the row of desks, her eyes lingering on Julian’s, tucked into the alcove at the end, nestled almost corner-to-corner with one other desk. There were two visible scars in the dust where she had removed the scroll and the folio, still nestled safely in her leather satchel at her back. Her heart fluttered at the sight of the desk, but her intuition compelled her gaze over to the one next to it; what she saw wrung her heart. 

Asra’s desk was tidy, the way he kept their room, the shop – there were neat stacks of spellbooks, healing and protections, mostly, some history books, but few personal affects, aside from a wooden fox totem and a single dried flower, adhered to the wood with what looked like a sticky sap – a foxglove, warm violet petals and bloody throats. The juxtaposition with the helter-skelter of Julian’s desk made her surge, the corners of her lips twisting upward. It was almost comical, how different these two were. 

Iris carefully picked up a book from Asra’s desk, and flipped through its pages. A tinge of magic emanated from it – no, not magic, but something...something different, something sad and sweet and hopeless and hopeful. Iris remembered something Asra once told her, echoing, like a faraway dream – that books carried strange magic, the memories of everyone who ever read them. For a moment, as Iris thumbed through the vellum-thin pages, Asra’s deep, gentle voice swirling in her ear, she assumed Asra was just being poetic. But...the magic the pages thrummed with practically called to her in their own voice, though they were distorted, tinged, tinny. 

Iris hesitated, the discomfiting brittle of fear shaking her. She rested her chin on her knuckles, deep in thought. Softly, insistently, the cards called to her. 

Of course, she thought. She sat down on the floor and shuffled the deck, feeling the Arcana’s energy flow through her fingertips. She felt compelled to pull seven cards: **the three of cups**, three crows on a branch. **The Hierophant, reversed**, the raven, feathers glittering. **The Tower**, lightning striking a conifer tree. **The five of cups**– the horse’s head, drooping, eyeless, mane lank. **Justice, reversed **– the cats’ eyes slanted, all-seeing. **The one of cups. Strength**, the rose in the lion’s mouth.

This pull did not speak to Iris at all. She thought carefully about the meaning of each card, but could not fathom together what the Arcana was trying to tell her. It was full of foreboding; so many cups…emotions, relationships, love… and cards for sadness, grief, tragedy. But there were also cards for resiliency, rebirth, the stirrings of desire. 

Iris chewed her lip, then jumped off the cliff; she reached up to grab the first book from Asra’s desk. 

She closed her eyes, listening closely. It seemed as if she could hear a thousand whispers coming from it, all different voices – different volumes, tones, words, languages. For a moment, she was almost overwhelmed by the number, resisting the instinctual, black-hole urge to pull away, but then she heard the most familiar voice that filled her with joy: Asra’s, silky, airy, and playful. Iris focused her magic and felt a soft surge of warmth around her. 

_When she opened her eyes, she was still in the library, but the sun was low, orange, casting a low evening glow over the volumes and volumes of books. The windows were thrown open – the pungent smells of dust and must were gone, replaced with sage incense and parchment. The library was practically filled with people at desks, browsing the shelves, conducting hushed conversation. Iris could hardly imagine this many people in the palace, let alone the library. _

_“Asra, what do you think of this?” Julian’s voice startled Iris out of her wonderment. He was wearing a doctor’s waxcloth coat and long leather gloves, standing over Asra’s desk, laying out some documents for Asra to review. He ran one hand through his hair, pulling his wild waves out of his eyes; he wasn’t wearing an eyepatch, his right eye normal, healthy. Somehow, he was even more devilishly handsome without it. _

_It was Asra’s turn to be startled – Faust slithered out of his collar as he lazily rubbed his eyes; he must have been sleeping with his face in the book. _

_Julian raised an eyebrow. “I think I’ve got something. I’m close, I can feel it. I could use your eyes.” _

_Asra leaned over the drawings, his bleary eyes roving over the page; then, he leaned back and yawned. “Ilya, if you wanted to show me your fantasies, you didn’t have to hide behind pretense.” _

_Julian rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smirk. “It’s a medical illustration.” _

_Asra smiled broadly. “Same thing.” _

_Julian rolled up his drawings and gently whacked Asra’s shoulder with them. “At least I’m working. What are you doing over here, napping?” _

_“Daydreaming. It’s important work.” Asra leaned back in his chair, raising the two front feet off the ground. _

_Julian’s eyes darkened slightly with worry. “Asra, if you keep slacking off like this...” _

_Asra opened one vibrant, violet eye and regarded Julian. “It’s cute that you worry. It’ll be fine.” _

_Julian rolled his eyes again. “I don’t particularly like being called cute.” _

_At this, Asra laughed. “I love being called cute.” A fond smile flitted across his face, his eyes far away. _

_“I should like to meet this mystery woman someday.” Julian replied, with a mischievous smirk._

_“What, so you can woo her? With your so-called medical illustrations?”_

Iris felt a flash of cold; she was back in the abandoned library. She knew Julian and Asra worked together, but if this memory wasn’t distorted by the haze of time, the warp of remembering...it seemed like their relationship was more like a friendship. Maybe even a little...flirty? Iris furrowed her brow, thinking. Asra took men as lovers. It wouldn’t surprise her if Julian did, too. That...would certainly explain a few things, Iris realized, her thumbnail caught firmly between her teeth.

She reached for another book on Asra’s desk, a thick compendium of restoration magic, searching for his voice, but this time, it was Julian’s voice she found. She dove in, the surge of warmth washing over her. 

_It was night, candles burning low in their sconces, shadows dancing across the rows and rows of books. Julian and Asra were both sitting at their desks, Asra reading the thick spellbook, Julian industriously taking down the day’s notes. For a moment, a wave of affection surged over Iris for both of them, their features sharpened with focus, intensity. Then, Asra closed the book with a heavy thud. _

_“I need to get back to the shop – it’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Asra stood up from his desk. Julian turned his eyes to Asra, and Iris could see his gaze lingering on his shoulders, his arms, as Asra gathered his things. _

_Asra slung his bag over his shoulder and tucked the compendium under his arm. He looked back at Julian, who averted his eyes quickly. “Goodnight, Ilya.” Asra muttered, his tone dispassionate, distracted. He turned towards the door. _

_With a quick but clumsy movement, Julian’s hand shot out and grabbed Asra’s wrist, knocking the book out of his hand. Asra turned to him, clearly startled. _

_Julian paused, his eyes wide – as if he, too, was startled by his own boldness. He stuttered for a moment, before murmuring, “I, um. I...can’t stand it anymore. .I..I want you, Asra. I think of you… more – more often than I’d like to admit.” _

_Asra’s face darkened into a mysterious expression Iris had never seen before. His eyes were blank and cold, but she felt a well of deep sadness, pity...loneliness? bubble up inside her, strangely, strangely. Slowly, Asra reached into his pocket and pulled out a key – the very key to the back door of the shop that Julian had given Iris that morning. Asra pulled his wrist out of Julian’s hand and gently placed the key in his palm. _

_“Goodnight, Ilya.” Asra said again, his tone even and incomprehensible. Julian stared at the key, confused, as Asra turned away, heading for the door. _

_“Asra!” Julian called. Asra turned around, now slightly annoyed. _

_“Your...erm, the book...” Julian picked it up from the floor and held it out to him. _

The memory faded with a gust like cold wind. Iris picked up another thick, worn book on Julian’s desk, searching for their voices. Julian’s voice came to her as a shaky wail; her heart leapt, pulling her in. 

_It was midday, the sky outside a bright, swirling gray. The library was empty except for Julian and a figure Iris had only seen from the distance, but seemed to know by heart – Quaestor Valdemar, the Court Physician and Head Surgeon of Vesuvia, striking an imposing silhouette, two tall wimples like the thick horns adding to their already impressive height. _

_Valdemar’s expression was mixed with curiosity and disgust as they regarded Julian, who – Iris realized – was not wearing his usual clothes, comfortable, ruffled, ripped. Under his white doctor’s cloak, he wore an all-black suit and a somber black shirt; it was the least flamboyant thing Iris had ever seen him in. His eyes were red and puffy, his skin waxen and his features contorted. He had been crying, Iris realized with a pang. _

_“I’m surprised at you, Doctor 069.” Valdemar scolded, voice muffled by the medical mask that obscured their nose and mouth. “You should not get so attached to your patients.” Valdemar’s fingers tapped in their steepled hands. “Compose yourself here in the library, then return as soon as you can. We need your dexterous hands to complete the dissection.” _

_Something like a whimper escaped Julian’s lips, wringing Iris’s heart; she had never seen him this distressed. Valdemar tilted their head, tutted, and seemed to recede into the lined walls like mist. _

_Julian sat heavily in the one of the overstuffed chairs in the middle of the library, holding his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his legs. He began to cry, uncontrollably, loudly, unabashedly, his body heaving with each sob. _

_The door to the library flew open, and Asra appeared in his traveling clothes, hat in hand. He was clearly out of breath, his golden skin glistening with sweat. His eyes fell on Julian and he rushed to him, placing his hands on the doctor’s shoulders. “I just got the word from Nadia.” He said breathlessly. “I came as soon as I could.” _

_Julian looked up at Asra, through his tears, and the wail Iris had heard entering the memory escaped him. He wrapped his arms around Asra, who sank to his knees under the much larger man’s weight. Iris saw that Asra’s eyes were glittering with tears, too – sadness and compassion for both her lovers clawed at her, leaving her raw. _

_“It’s too late. I couldn’t save her.” Julian sobbed. “She’s dead.” _

_“I know.” Asra soothed, though he could not stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. _

_Julian’s face contorted, twisted with pain. “You asked me to look out for her!” He howled. “I’m a useless doctor, a useless man…it should be me who’s dead...” _

_Asra pulled him into a tighter embrace, and Julian buried his face in the crook of Asra’s neck. _

_“I loved her, Asra.” Julian moaned, piteously. _

_Asra winced and bit his lip, his body shaking now as he tried to restrain his sorrow, for Julian’s sake. _

_“I loved her too, Ilya.”_

With a gasp, Iris was sucked back into the abandoned library, blinking back empathetic tears. She took a deep breath and recentered herself, letting her emotions cool. _Who could Asra and Julian have been referring to?_ She thought to herself, trying to keep herself from shaking. Who had they both loved...who died? The plague claimed so many. Why had Asra entrusted that woman’s safety to Julian – why had Asra left at all? 

Iris needed to know more. 

She gingerly touched the spines of the books, listening to the voices, searching for Julian and Asra, for the painful aura of that moment. Iris could feel her fingers trembling, her calm façade fraying – she was absorbing the emotions of the memory every time she peered behind the curtain into the owner’s psyche. Her hands fell on a rough, handbound leather journal on Julian’s desk, which surged with such potent memory and pain that Iris wrenched her hand away as if it had burned her. 

She flipped through the pages gently, and observed that many in the front had been sliced out cleanly; it appeared to be Julian’s personal journal. The dates began some years ago, about six months before the last masquerade, and ended shortly before the night Lucio was murdered. She saw several mentions of “A” as she scanned, who she assumed was Asra, but nothing mentioning a woman. 

She pressed her lips together, uncertain, before focusing on the feeling from the previous memory. She located something similar quickly, Julian’s sorrow shooting through her with the violence of lightning. 

_The library was pitch black, save for the moonlight in the open windows; it had to be well into the night. A soft, late spring breeze blew in, bringing with it the scent of the purple hyacinths from the courtyard below. _

_It took a moment for Iris’s eyes to adjust; she could see no figures on the main floor, no movement. Her hair began to stand on end at the back of her neck – the aura of the room was ominous, stifling. Then, she heard a sound from above; she trained her eyes upwards, finding a silhouette sitting on the balustrade that wrapped around the library’s second floor. She would recognize it anywhere – the long limbs, the slight slouch as he sat. Even his long, thin nose was recognizable as he gazed out out the window, his elbows resting on his knees. _

_Iris barely had a moment to wonder what he was doing up there before he planted both hands on the bannister and pushed himself forward off the balustrade. As he fell, the silhouette of a rope tied to the pillars appeared in the moonlight, like a thick stroke of ink. Dark knowledge shot through Iris like fire, searing, consuming, and though she was rooted in the memory, unable to move or speak, every fiber of her body sizzled like a live wire, begging to scream. _

_The rope grew taut, and for a wretched, wretched minute, Julian’s body convulsed as he struggled, kicked, choked for breath. Iris could do nothing, not even turn her eyes away. It felt like her heart, her body, was going to rip in two – she thought she was going to die from her misery, from his misery. _

_“Ilya!” A piercing scream cut the silence and there was a flash of blue light – no, of water, hardened to a razor’s edge. It slashed the rope connecting the noose to the balustrade, slicing it cleanly, and Julian fell to the floor with a sickening thud. _

_Asra dropped the heavy tome of runes he was carrying and rushed to Julian’s side. He was gasping for air, tears streaming down his face. _

_“Why, Asra?” Julian wept. “I wanted to die...” _

Iris was practically thrown out of the memory, her nerves on fire, her skin icy and goosebumped, her whole body shaking. She was the one sobbing now, but she had no time to feel her anguish, to calm herself. She searched both their desks frantically for the tome of runes Asra was carrying, tearing through papers, tossing books aside roughly, until she finally found it, draped open over an armchair clear across the room. She clutched the book to her chest, searching for Asra’s voice as he screamed Julian’s name. His cry pulled her straight back into the memory. 

_Asra kneeled over Julian; his mouth twisted in agony, fresh tears welling up in his eyes. Asra reached out and touched Julian’s face, unable to form words. Iris felt every single one of Asra’s emotions roiling inside of her – his worry, his anguish, his mourning. _

_Julian wrenched his face away from Asra’s hand. “Leave me here to die.” He wailed. “She’s dead...”_

_“I won’t do that, Ilya.” Asra muttered, a tear slipping down his cheek. He grabbed Julian’s chin forcefully and muscled it back, so he was staring Julian straight in the eyes. Asra placed his thumb in the center of Julian’s neck and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Both his and Julian’s eyes glowed a blinding, vivid purple; from behind Asra’s thumb, hazy lavender wisps appeared. _

_They drifted, snakelike, down Asra’s arms, across his shoulders, up his neck to the seat of his throat chakra, pulsating faintly. Pain seared through Iris’s head, as if the seam of her brain had been severed with a hot knife – Asra gasped loudly, and the tendrils snaked inside him. He slumped over, clutching his head with both hands. The violet light faded. _

_Julian moaned, hand flying to his forehead. “Fuck... what happened? Why does my head pound?” _

_“You hit your head, you tall freak.” Asra said placidly, moving his hands away from his forehead. “Then you fell. Stay still a moment. You’re just coming to.” _

_Julian closed his eyes, letting his head fall back to the floor. “Damn. I’m going feel that in the morning.” _

_With a wince, Asra deftly magicked the noose around Julian’s neck into the ether. He placed his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Where are your things? I’ll get them for you. We should get you to your rooms so you can rest.” _

_“Shit’s on the desk.” Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose with his long fingers. “Motherfucker, this smarts. I might’ve given myself concussion.” _

_Asra collected Julian’s things. His hands fell on the journal – with a furtive glance at Julian’s supine form, he pocketed it. “Let’s see. What herb should you apply as a poultice to a sprain for quick healing?” _

_Julian groaned. “Comfrey?”_

_“Good. What are the names of your apprentices?” _

_Julian wrinkled his brow. “Ugh, that’s not fair. Tauno, Syed, Amelie, Nikita, Thandiwe, and Boro. And..Nadia, I suppose.” _

_“7? Is that it?” Asra asked evenly. Julian rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed, and nodded. _

_Asra stood over Julian, extending a hand to him. “Well, you’re not concussed.” _

_Julian took his hand. _

Iris felt a gush of cold, like icy water was splashed over her; she let out a gasp as the present-day library materialized around her. Asra had erased Julian’s memories – no, he had absorbed them, and the emotions that went with them. Not just the memories of Julian’s suicide attempt, but of the woman, his lover – an apprentice? – who had died. Her death had ignited something dark in Julian, and from that sprung a deep well of inescapable melancholy. Asra...Asra must have taken that, too. 

Iris’s heart pounded in her chest; her whole body, her blood even, felt heavy. That Julian could be in so much pain...that Asra would absorb that pain so Julian could live on, blissfully unaware…

She absentmindedly picked up a slim volume next to the armchair that called to her, still absorbing everything she had just seen. It was a book on knots. She heard Asra’s voice, this time low and throaty – the memory was tinged with sadness, but also with something else it took her a moment to recognize – pleasure? She let the warmth of the memory pass over her, desperate for a reprieve. 

_The library was pitch black again, save for one candle in a secluded corner, burning low in its brass finger loop. Even in the warm, flickering light, the scene that was illuminated to Iris was clear as day. _

_Julian was naked, sprawled on his back, his lissome chest in full view, his long body contorted; his hands and feet were hog-tied together at his hips, his legs spread wide. Asra straddled him, also completely naked, his hands gripping the knobs of Julian’s knees. Asra’s honeyed skin fairly glowed golden in the low light – no, Iris realized – both of them were drenched in sweat. Asra pumped his hips slowly, and Julian let out a guttural, animal sound, throwing his head back, his face red, his lips rosy, bitten and swollen; his erection throbbed, heavily, against his stomach. He was clearly in ecstasy with Asra fully hilted inside him. _

_Iris’s gaze swam to Asra, and she was struck numb. It was the same inscrutable expression as the memory with the key – eyes blank, cold, but with a restrained, satisfied smile playing across his lips. _

_Her clairvoyance did not betray her in this moment. It pleased Asra to give Julian what he wanted: to be dominated, to be hurt, especially by Asra. And Asra desired Julian; Iris even felt the seeds of something, something uncertain, something hesitant, something wistful, unfurling in his heart. But Asra was also carrying Julian’s heaviest memories, Julian’s mourning, as well as his own. Everything – Asra’s loneliness, Julian’s depression, both of their trauma, their guilt – swirled like snakes inside of Asra against the strong emotional walls he’d built._

_Julian was hurting, too – Iris sensed, saw, his confusion, his desperation for connection. He must feel the way she did, whole stretches of his life sketched roughly, without color, pieces torn away. His lust for Asra was true, but also a distraction. Julian was running away from his emptiness, straight into the arms of the man who kept the answers from him. This irony did not elude Asra. _

_Iris watched their sex, their heated, careful coupling, conflicted – it was stirring her, but it also made her deeply sad. Asra pumped his hips into Julian again. “Asra…” Julian moaned loudly; his cock twitched again, violently, violently. _

_Asra’s face darkened with pain, contempt. A silk cloth materialized and wrapped itself around Julian’s mouth, parting his lips roughly, gagging him, before knotting itself tightly at the nape of his neck. _

_“Shut up, Ilya.” Asra growled, slapping Julian’s ass hard. The snap of skin on skin echoed like a secret through the library. _

Iris let the cold wash over her as she returned to the present; she was exhausted, confused, emotionally stripped and raw. She wanted to find Asra and Julian right now, hold them, comfort them. How could she have never known of this pain? Who...who was this woman, to wreck them both so exquisitely? She wanted to leave the library and never return – the voices of every book were now spiraling through her, entreating her, pulling her in every direction, clawing at the raw, fraying edges of her psyche. But she knew she wasn’t done – she still had too many questions.

Then, she heard a voice that nearly shattered her. It was her own, distorted, calling from far away. Iris rose and found her way to its source, to a shelf absolutely covered in dust and dirt. She ran her hands over the books until one flooded her with a rush of recognition, an almost-friendliness, like the first spring sunshine. She pulled it out, blew the dust from its cover. It was a heavy compendium on the Tarot – astrology, numerology, interpretation, symbolism. It felt like an extension of her body in her hand, and yet she had no memory of ever reading it. 

She listened carefully, again, for her voice – there were several memories of hers in this book, happy ones, reverent ones, memories full of love. But the memory that called to her was angry, electrically so. It sucked her in, hot and sizzling, suffocating. 

_Her memory-self stood so close that corporeal-Iris could smell her perfume; irises, wet with summer rain, and lilies, heavy with their sweet, sensual musk. She was younger, no more than 20, and wearing a liquid-looking, plunging, curvehugging white dress of undulating velvet. Her hair was long, platinum-blonde, pinned back into a sleek, elegant updo. Nestled between her breasts was a giant, moon-shaped emerald – the very emerald Iris wore wore now, the gift from Nadia that pulsated with Asra’s magic. It must have been a gift from him to her, perhaps gifted that night. _

_Loud music, pounding bass, slinking strings, floated up from the courtyard. In her hand was a wolf mask, its faux fur white, tinged with soft cool gray. The masquerade...a different one from her memory with Julian in the greenhouse. When could this be? Surely not the night of Lucio’s death. Before? The shade of Iris, neck bowed, slinky back to the window, ran her empty hand ran over the spine of the Tarot book, absentmindedly._

_Then she turned her head sharply, her eyes narrowed, wolflike. “Of course you’re fucking leaving.” _

_Iris swiveled to see Asra standing there, a gilded fox mask in both his hands. She had never seen him so finely dressed – his hair slicked back, but still unruly and mussed, his skin looking soft and supple against a deep purple shirt, an elegant velvet cape draped over his shoulders. She could see every muscle through his shirt, and his luxurious white silk pants emphasized his well-defined hips, his sturdy legs. Her heart pounded – he looked so, so handsome, a heat coiling between her legs. His gaze, however, was cool, even. He refused to meet her anger, even in this memory. _

_She was startled to find Julian there, too, leaning against a bookshelf some few meters away, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. He was decked out, too, in the stylish black suit from the memory with Valdemar, but it was paired a blood-red silk shirt with a ruffled neckline, buttoned low so his chest hair peeked through. It made his hair look especially auburn, his skin especially pale; she couldn’t help but notice his pale freckles. The same raven’s mask from the greenhouse memory rested on the shelf next to him. He, too, looked incredibly handsome, even as he scrutinized their conversation with wary eyes._

_Asra stepped towards the memory of Iris. “Come with me.” He said, firmly. He was not asking. _

_The younger Iris’s gaze swung to Julian, fiery – Iris’s skin bristled and burned as the memory’s anger spread through her. “You let him get this far with this half-baked idea?”_

_Julian shook his head. “I certainly can’t reason with him.” _

_Memory-Iris returned her gaze to Asra, her feminine features contorted into a sneer. “You’re a coward. The city needs you – needs us, all of us.” She paused, her gaze softening. “I need you, Asra.” _

_His face betrayed no emotion. “It’s too dangerous here. You know the plague has spread to the palace? The healers are dying. Everyone is dying.” His dark eyes swung to Julian’s, then back to memory-Iris’s. “I don’t want to leave without you, haté abdi. None of us are safe. We should all be leaving.” _

_“That’s running away!” She practically hissed, her tongue curling, snakelike, in her mouth. “That would make us as evil as Lucio. He doesn’t give a shit about other people, either.” _

_At this, Asra winced. Julian’s brow furrowed. “Iris, that’s not fair.” He muttered._

_She wheeled on him. “Don’t you fucking take his side. You’re not leaving, are you?” _

_Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose, unsure of how to navigate this delicate dance between his friends. “...No.” He said, finally, flatly. _

_The shade of Iris turned back to Asra and practically threw the wolf mask into his arms. “Leave.” She growled. She gestured to Julian with a jerk of her head. “I’ll apprentice with Julian. We’ll save Vesuvia, our friends, without you.” Iris closed her eyes; they were smarting with tears. She knew she could be cruel, hot-headed, rash, but this is the cruelest version of herself she had ever seen. “We’re through.” Her younger self spat to Asra._

_Now Asra would not meet her gaze. Iris could not untangle how he was feeling; she felt his magic blocking her. He must have cast an inscrutability charm. Even in this memory, which must have happened at least 4 years ago, she was a powerful enough clairvoyant that Asra could not repel her with his mind alone. But he had only began to teach her to hone her clairvoyance three years ago. _

_The Iris in this memory gave him one last, long stare before she turned and rushed out of the room, gathering her long dress to her knees. Iris was pulled with her; memory-Iris wrenched open the secret door, but hesitated, leaning against the doorway, and dissolved into tears. She glanced back one final time – neither of them was watching her. Asra’s shoulders and neck were slumped, his face was in his hands. He couldn’t hold back anymore – he was crying, too. _

_Julian bit his lip, and threw his arm around Asra’s shoulder, pulling him into a comforting, sidelong embrace. He had no idea what to say. _

_“Take care of her, Ilya.” Asra croaked. _

_“I’ll do what I can, my friend.” Julian murmured in reply. _

Iris wrenched herself out of the memory, choking, gasping for breath. There was no air; her head felt as if it was going to explode – she fell onto her hands and knees and retched, hot sharp bile searing the raw of her throat. It ripped the fabric of her in two and sewed her back together, over and over and over again, infinitely, each time rougher, cruder, more misshapen and jagged. And yet, somehow, she knew it was true. Somehow, she had known all along. 

She was Julian’s apprentice. She was the one who had died. She had died. She had _**died**_.

The world tilted, violent, cruel, and Iris fainted.

*******

“Iris!” A warm hand was slapping her face gently; she was overwhelmed by the smell of sweet pea.  
Her eyelids fluttered open, and Portia was kneeling over her, worry sketched into her brow. “What happened, Iris? It looks like you hit your head.”

Iris’s hand flew up and touched her temple; her fingertips came away crimson. She saw blood on the bookshelf, dripping off the edge of the shelf where the Tarot book was housed. She drew a very small circle on her forehead, and a gold light flashed – her skin sewed itself back together, seamlessly. 

“I’m fine, Portia. I think I fainted.” Iris rested her head back. “I just need a moment to collect myself. I hope you weren’t worried.” 

“What, me worried?” Portia winked. “Are you sure I can’t get you something? Tea?” 

Iris sat up as if shocked. Asra. 

She scrambled to her feet; heavy, useless blood pumped through her body like mercury. The memories she absorbed flooded through her – pain, loneliness, guilt, depression – she gasped for air, her face scrunched up with dismay. Asra - she had to find Asra. She had to speak to Asra. She grew dizzy and fell to her knees. 

“Iris?!?” Portia exclaimed, reaching to the small of the fallen woman’s back. Iris shook her off, stood wobbily, and took of running, stumbling towards the balcony at the end of the cavernous hallway. Portia raced after her, skidding wildly on the polished tiles outside the library door. 

“IRIS!” She screamed. Iris wheeled around, her eyes glowing white. 

“Don’t follow me, Portia!” Iris yelled, drawing a large circle and X in the air with two fingers. The protection glowed pearly white, streaked through with volatile blue and fierce pink, warning orange; Portia slowed dramatically, like she was fighting against the current of a powerful stream. 

“What the fuck, Iris?!”

“Sorry, Portia!” Iris shouted, thundering down the palace steps towards the maze. It was dark now; judging by the splashes of fuschia and red on the horizon, it was just past sundown. The air was humid and balmy, sweltering, even now in the dead of winter, but the cold of night would be sweeping in soon. She tore through the maze, her footing uneven on the grassy landscape; she clung to the hedges for stability. She followed her intuition to its center, and the fountain burst into view. 

_Friend?_ Faust slithered from a willow branch above and fell, coiled, onto Iris’s shoulder as she ran heavily into the side of the fountain, bracing herself with her two hands. She bent over doubled, winded, almost dunking her forehead in the cool water. 

_Concern..._ Faust whimpered, wrapping herself around Iris’s wrist. Iris ignored her, practically ripping the emerald necklace off of herself. Asra’s warmth, his gentle soulfulness washed over her, soothing, but not enough, never enough... She slowly dipped the emerald into the water, trying to calm her wild, skittering heart, summoning him to her. His face appeared before her in the ripples of the water’s surface, like a breathing mirror. 

“You’re back.” Asra murmured, opening one eye sleepily; he must have been napping. Iris saw palm trees swaying rhythmically behind him. He leaned forward and rested his chin on one palm, his elbow on one knee; Iris felt gush of affection for him. Then she remembered. 

“Asra...you said two days ago that you wanted to be more honest with me. I...” She clenched her teeth, clutched her temples; lightning-sharp pain surged through them as she drew the memories up. This alarmed Asra – his eyes widened with concern. 

“Iris – are you okay?” 

Iris grimaced. “No, I’m not!” She yelped, then looked at him through misty eyes; she barely registered how her skin felt fiery under her fingers, the crackle of sparks in her ears, the white-white glow that haloed her vision. “I need to rest. I need to sleep for a hundred years. My heart feels like it’s been crushed under a wheel. But you...” Her lips trembled as tears slid down her face, and there was nothing, nothing she could do to stop the waver of her voice, the unrelenting release that shook her, thundered through her, the confused booming of everything, everything, the scent of smoke and cinder. “...you’re in so much more pain...” 

Iris startled as Asra’s hands wrapped around her; she was engulfed in his smell, oranges and cinnamon, damp herbs, doused fire. He was here, and soaking wet, kneeling in the fountain and leaning into her. 

“I’m here.” He whispered, stroking her hair with his drenched hand. “I’m here, Iris. Tell me what happened.”

Iris was sobbing uncontrollably now; she threw her arms around Asra, pressing her face into his collarbone. Faust slithered around both of them, making a long coil around their shoulders. _Pain… _she whimpered, shaking. Asra held Iris for a very long time while she cried, while everything swam, spun, slowly, slowly down in her.

Finally, it was he who pulled away. He cupped her chin with his hand, wiping her tears away with his thumb. Water dripped from his hair down onto his jawline, his neck. Iris saw the muscles tense in his face; he couldn’t keep the concern out of his body, his eyes, his voice.

“Tell me what happened.” He pressed her again. 

Iris took a deep, shuddering breath. “I was in the library. The books...I could hear the memories. I could hear...your voice. Julian’s voice.” Her voice broke. “My voice.” 

Asra dug his fingers into her shoulder a little, empathy blossoming into anguish. “What did you see?” He urged her, his voice shaky. 

Iris started crying again in earnest. “You...Julian...you were friends...he came onto you...you were fucking...he...” Iris couldn’t stop from wailing. “...he tried to kill himself...you saved him...” 

Asra wrapped her up again in his arms, tightly this time, almost uncomfortably so. Iris could feel him shiver. 

“I was...you were both distraught. You were mourning.” She squeezed Asra tightly. “You were mourning...you were mourning...” 

“We were mourning you.” Asra murmured, his eyelashes glistening as tears rolled down his face. 

“You were mourning me.” Iris echoed, gasping. “I died in the plague. But I’m here now…?” Her brow furrowed with confusion – her head surged with pain again. 

“You’re here now.” He cupped her chin and pulled her in for a long kiss. “You’re here, and you’re real.” He pressed his forehead into hers, palms warm against her cheeks as he breathed slowly against her lips. Iris felt her breath slow, deepen. Then she looked up into his eyes.

“You took all his pain away. All his memories of me...” It was Iris’s turn to touch his face, cupping it with both hands. “You’ve been carrying them all for him. Do you...?” 

Asra’s eyes glistened as he met Iris’s gaze. “Yes.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing; his fingers ghosted against his collarbone, just stopping short of the leather lanyard around his neck, the one that Iris had never seen him without. “But I had to lock them away. It was a heavy burden...is, a heavy burden.” 

Iris circled her thumbs on his cheekbones. “Do you ever plan to return them?” She asked. “I know he’s searching for those memories. The same way I am...” 

Asra closed his eyes, his hand reaching up to cover hers on his cheek. “I...I don’t know what will happen. Every time...every time I’ve returned memories, it didn’t go well.” His lips stretched into a grimace, his expression twisting, absolutely distraught. 

Iris brushed a curl away from his eyes, and he leaned into her touch, his cheek in her palm. “Why, Asra?” She whispered. “Why did you do it?”

Asra’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze far away. “That night was a full moon, and my magic was more powerful than I remember it ever being – it was Gemini season, and... I moved without thinking. I….” He paused, meeting Iris’s gaze, unsure. “I didn’t know what to do to help him. I just wanted to keep him alive. And...not in pain...” His voice cracked; the sound nearly cleaved Iris’s heart in two. 

Iris nuzzled her forehead against Asra’s, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’re not alone anymore, Asra.” She whispered. He breathed deeply against her, the whispering of air sweet against her damp skin; they were still. 

“How is your head?” He murmured after a minute or so, kissing the top of her head softly. 

“Not great, but I’ll live.” She replied, as her temples twinged. “I could use some chamomile tea right about now.” 

Asra sighed, lifting his chin from her head to gaze up at the waxing moon. Three late-season geese rose from the garden with a smattering of soft honks, the feathers on their seamless wings glimmering in the weak light.

“I could use some, too. And some sleep sounds divine.” Iris ran her hands down his back. She knew traveling between worlds, through portals, was exhausting for even the most experienced magicians. She wasn’t sure how he was still standing. 

“This conversation’s not over. We have a lot to talk about.” Iris said firmly. “But let’s see if Portia can bring us some tea. I’m sure Nadia will have no problem with you staying with me tonight.” 

Asra nodded, a soft, affectionate smile curling across his face. “Lead the way.” 

Iris didn’t notice the singemarks on the marble of the fountain, nor the crackled branches of the hedges, nor the acrid sear of ash in her nose; arm in arm, hand in hand, with Faust looped between them, Iris and Asra disappeared into the labyrinth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: If you’re having thoughts of suicide or feel triggered by this content, call the hotline (1-800-273-8255), talk to a mental health professional, or confide in a trusted friend/ally who can get you to safety. [Click here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines) for a more comprehensive list of suicide crisis lines around the world. _
> 
> _So. Many. Interactions with Julian in the game feel like invitations, almost to the point where it seems like what I’ll call his, for lack of a better term, depression becomes part of his romantic magnetism, which I have...mixed feelings about. (But like...I’m also writing a real smutty version of this story, so I’m not sure I have a leg to stand on with this argument?) This felt very much like an implied part of his journey while traveling his route, and it was something that spoke to me and asked to be explored, without dancing around it with purple prose. I wouldn’t have written this if it didn’t feel like it was an integral part of this story._
> 
> _It is never my intention to hurt, trigger, or endanger anyone. I weighed this heavily while I wrote this chapter. As always, I take your feedback into account._
> 
> _Also excuse me Mr Gotye, who gave you the rIgHt to have a voice like that_
> 
> _Aight that it's it for part 1 see y'all in part 2___

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always welcomed.
> 
> Also lowkey I'm kinda new to AO3? Your patience and kindness is much appreciated.


End file.
